During the very early stages of the ongoing pandemic, I set out to capture Airport Blvd—6.6-miles of pavement that intersects a large swath of greater East Austin, passes through an airport turned mixed-used development, and across I-35 where it comes to an end.
It’s one of many corridors in a sprawling, Southern city—a city in which access to transportation becomes a prerequisite to accessing employment, food, health care, education, and entertainment.
Click images to enlarge.
from Hanif Abdurraqib’s essay A World of Black Intimacy at the Card Table
I’d pull into Houston’s Third Ward at sunset, greeted by purple skies and bellowing Spanish Moss.
As I learned the neighborhood I was staying in, I became accustomed to a group of men who would make an appearance each weekend.
R&B blared from an oversized loudspeaker that would reverberate through the whole park as they slammed dotted porcelain-colored tiles onto the picnic table that had become theirs.
I’d highly recommend opening a window and queuing up “I Want to Be Your Man” by Roger and “Try Me Tonight” by T.K. Soul, two of the songs they’d play, to put yourself in the right frame of mind.
Parking during one such sunset, I was struck by beautiful light and energetic domino playing. I worked up the courage to ask the group if I could take a few photos. Disregarding what my light meter was telling me to do, I opted for a faster shutter to avoid the blur that would result from a slower shutter.
A week later, my images had been developed and scanned. Flipping through the frames, not the images shown in this post, it was clear that I had underexposed the film, which were also void of the communal energy I had observed. The images weren’t at all representative of the scene I had hoped to capture and in fact problematic in the way I had been unable to accurately capture darker skin tones. (Check out this great video by Aundre Larrow about shooting and editing darker skin tones.)
But, I had promised to bring prints the next time I was in Houston, so I printed several copies to give to the men who had so graciously allowed me to take their photos.
As the sun was setting on another warm spring evening, there they were again—as joyous and boisterous as ever. Running to my car to grab the prints, I was excited to hand them out. I figured they’d still be appreciative and maybe I was being overly critical.
Handing them out, Bruce, an impressively muscular man in a tight-fitting black tank top and matching fedora asked, “Have you been doing this long? You do know that when take a photo of a group of people you should be able to see all their faces?” His stoic expression quickly cracked into a smile.
In a few seconds, the entire table, including myself, was laughing, making fun of the underexposed prints.
Making up an explanation for my shortcomings Bruce interjected, “This guy is just getting his start as a photographer. Is everyone cool if he takes some photos?” Everyone was. I’ll have to use that line in the future.
As I captured a new set of images, shown here, it became clear that the first set of images despite missing the mark had served a very important purpose. The men I had met two weeks earlier were unbothered by my presence and I felt much more comfortable as I maneuvered around their table with my bulky medium format camera.
But after being invited in and making some pictures, we took a moment to have a short conversation. They told me about growing up together, we talked about how beautiful Spanish Moss looks at sunset, and the perils of I-10 (if you know, you know).
I love photography because as an inherently shy, but intensely curious person, my camera gives me an excuse to ask for an invitation into experiences I would otherwise have no reason to be a part of. Without my camera, it would feel very awkward to interrupt a game of dominoes among friends. My camera allows me to connect and engage with people whose lives would otherwise never intersect with mine.
For a very brief moment, I am graciously invited into worlds that I would otherwise never have access to—given “a window into a more vital community” (Hanif Abdurraqib, A World of Black Intimacy at the Card Table).
To be clear, I am in no way kidding myself into thinking that I am somehow deeply, or even superficially connected to a world of Black intimacy as the one Abdurraqib describes. But to be given a glimpse is a privilege in and of itself. Because ultimately, there is something culturally specific and special about a group of Black men who grew up together playing dominoes in the Third Ward.
My intention with these images is to try and capture their camaraderie, a certain brotherhood. I hope it comes across.
This week marks a year since Austin shut down for COVID and I was laid off from my job as a server. While the last year has been challenging in many ways, professionally and creatively it has been special. The unstructured free time that COVID has given me has really pushed my creativity. I’ve felt an ability to conceptualize and execute the work I’m most passionate about in a way that I wasn’t able to when I was bogged down by restaurant work.
I acknowledge that my experience of COVID has been privileged in so many ways. And, believe me, I have immense respect for the service industry workers who haven’t had a day off in over a year. I made a whole zine about it.
But reflecting on the last year, I wanted to share an essay I wrote in 2019—a year where I was balancing five serving shifts a week while working for companies that included Google and the New York Times. The duality of that experience was really challenging for me as I’d often find myself serving tables I envisioned myself seated at. I wrote this as a way of processing some of what I was feeling.
At the moment I’m balancing a job as a photographer for the Texas Senate, freelance work, and two large personal projects—more on all that very soon. But I think that like many creatives who have used restaurant work to pay the bills while pursuing what they love, there’s always a fear of needing to go back.
My very logical, and incredibly supportive life and business coach mom would probably caution against sharing this type of thing. But I think she’d also be proud that I feel comfortable enough to share this part of myself—the insecurities that are part of working in a creative field. I also see it as my very small act of rebellion in a digital environment where we are constantly bombarded by success. I hope you enjoy it.
Today I put on my first pair of non-slip shoes.
Opening the box felt much like any online purchase. A sense of anticipation and slight nervousness hoping the two-dimensional images flipped through on a screen would translate to the real thing. Putting them on was a little different. Unlike the adolescent feeling that still comes with putting on a new pair of shoes, this was more like opening a new tool. There was no excitement, no disappointment, just the knowledge that they would be put to use.
For those unfamiliar with non-slip shoes, they are commonly worn in the restaurant industry. As a server at a busy restaurant, I constantly move across slippery surfaces. And as I found out, there are actually shoes to help navigate the treacherous terrain that exists between the dining room floor and the kitchen.
Before working in restaurants I never even considered the existence of non-slip shoes. A constant threat of slipping was never a problem I encountered. When it did become a problem I regularly encounter, it still never occurred to me that there would be occupationally specific footwear to help with the perils of puddles and oil smears.
But even when awakened to the existence of non-slip tread, I decided to forgo its practicality. I preferred to brave the smudges and other saturated hazards than accept the permanence of my vocation.
While I’ve worked in restaurants for the last few years, my passion and profession is photography. I’m a photographer.
And while that’s how I see myself, most nights I don’t pack my backpack with my camera and lenses. I lace up my now non-slip shoes, grab a wine key and a lighter, and serve people fancy dinners.
Overhearing some coworkers talking about their preferred footwear and their endorsement of non-slip sneakers, I found myself intrigued. “There’s a website called ‘shoes for crews dot com.’” I had to check it out. “We didn't invent the work shoe. We obsessed over it.” And they really mean it. The non-slip tread they created also forms the actual logo for the brand.
Flipping through shoes I picked out a few favorites and even asked my fashion-forward brother’s opinion. Because of equal parts stubbornness, frugality, and symbolism I had internalized a vehement opposition to personally purchasing non-slip footwear.
But looking through different options and replaying my coworkers’ endorsements in my mind I eventually bought myself a pair of non-slip sneakers. Of course, I got the coolest ones possible—a pair of low-top PF Flyers. But who am I kidding, they’re ugly as hell. The vegan leather has a sheen of convenience that screams “I’m easy to wipe trash juice off of”. And each non-slip step reminds me of just how firmly planted I am.
My avoidance of non-slip shoes came from the knowledge that this was temporary. That a new job, a new opportunity was coming. And those opportunities have come. But they last weeks, days, hours. The necessary march through spilled salsas and floor cleaning solution must continue. And while acceptance does feel like a small defeat, at least now I don’t have to worry as much about slipping.
It’s impossible for twenty images to distill what happened in any year, but especially this one. We’ve experienced tragedy and revolution, chaos and quiet often all in the span of a single day.
While this year has certainly been challenging, I have felt immense personal growth as a photographer and business owner. In 2020 I worked for commercial clients and daily papers. I shot more rolls of film than in any other year. I had the time and the creative inspiration to shoot and edit important bodies of personal work.
I have so much to be grateful for.
I’m incredibly grateful for everyone who chose to hang one of my images on their wall this year, the photo editors, creative directors, and producers who have taken virtual meetings and hired me, and for the people who have graciously allowed me to capture their stories.
I’m proud of the diversity of work that I created this year. And while the various projects I was a part of have varying looks and feels, I felt my photographic voice grow stronger than ever. Ultimately, my work is about telling stories. I find it so exciting to see my commercial work, journalism work, and personal work take on an increasingly similar style.
I look forward to sharing what 2021 has in store. But for the time being, I want to reflect on the monumental year that 2020 has been. Take your time going through the twenty images that I chose to represent this year. You can click on the images to enlarge them.
McDonald’s on Airport Blvd in Austin, Texas.
Jillian Whitlow
Wendy Guerrero
James Dumapit
Joshua Nkansah-Adjei
These images were a part of a zine I made to say thank you to my friends and former coworkers at Suerte, an amazing restaurant in Austin.
Take a look a the full zine here. I’m looking forward to printing more work in 2021 and have some exciting book projects in the works.
Flint Beamon, co-owner of Barkin’ Creek in Austin. [Shot for Indeed]
Indeed approached me to create a visual case study of a business that uses their platform for hiring. Barkin’ Creek was a perfect partner because of their multifaceted business model and engaged owners. Check out the rest of the images here.
I was thrilled to be able to apply my photojournalistic approach to my commercial work this year.
Jenna Harkins and Ruben Staszewski
My brother Ruben, his girlfriend Jenna, and I collaborated to create a body of fashion photography work that served as an exploration of memory and my connection with San Francisco. The full body of work can be seen here.
My dad, Abrasha Staszewski’s studio.
Montsho Jarreau Thoth, an artist and friend, during a fall photo shoot in Austin.
Jeff was laid off from his job because of COVID-19. Having grown up in San Francisco, he had always seen people fishing from this pier and throughout the Bay Area. He decided to buy some fishing gear and give it a shot. The first time he caught and cooked crab, it wasn’t very good. But he tried it again and described that meal as “some of the best food I’ve ever had.” Now he fishes almost everyday and has even started selling crab for about $5 a pound.
Angela Tsai, a Geometry and Chinese language teacher at Vandegrift High School in Austin, Texas, teaches from behind a homemade protective barrier made from shower curtains she purchased at Walmart. [Shot for The Austin-American Statesman]
Greg Gibson at his home in Round Rock, Texas. Gibson contracted COVID-19 in September 2020. On October 20th, after his initial recovery, he fainted and hit his head during a coughing fit while at work. He was forced to spend thee days in the ICU as a result of brain bleeding. [Shot for USA Today]
Michael Che at his omakase style sushi bar run out of his food truck Tsuke Honten in North Austin. He will be opening Tsuke Edomae, a brick and mortar space in March, 2021. [Shot for Austin360]
Following the murder of George Floyd at the hands of police officers in Minneapolis, protests erupted across the country. A man raises his arms in protest outside the Texas Capitol in Austin.
Photographing the protests in Austin that took place following the murder of George Floyd allowed me to connect with the city that has become my home. Shooting for myself as opposed to for a publication allowed me to showcase the protests the way I was experiencing them instead of thinking about how a publication would want them represented.
On June 7th, in his opening address to an audience of thousands at Huston-Tillotson University in East Austin, Chas Moore (not pictured) the Executive Director and Founder of the Austin Justice Coalition made it clear that the protest taking place was about much more than fighting against police brutality—it was a protest against police brutality, gentrification, and white privilege as well as a rally for black joy, black health, and black wealth.
Katie Naranjo (left), Field Chair for the Travis County Democratic Party Coordinated Field Team, and Liz McLeod, Coordinated Campaign Manager for TCDP, participate in live-streamed interviews throughout the night as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic during the TCDP Election Day watch party in Austin, Texas. [Shot for The Texas Tribune]
Camille Tealer (left), a Travis County Democratic Party Field Team member, and Danielle Stoller, Precinct Chair for the TCDP, watch CNN’s election night coverage during the TCDP Election Day watch party in Austin, Texas. The watch party, normally attended by the Democratic Party candidates and their guests, was a much more sparse affair with temperature checks, masks, and social distancing implemented. [Shot for The Texas Tribune]
Nik Patrizi, whose restaurant Vic and Al’s was slated to open in mid-March as COVID-19 swept across the country, hands out free gumbo in the Cherrywood neighborhood of Austin.
Vic and Al’s gumbo-mobile was a surprise that I needed to learn more about. Read the full story I shot and wrote here.
The winding ten by ten block triangle that makes up the Cherrywood neighborhood in East Austin has become my pandemic safe-haven.
While the neighborhood is quiet for the most part, it will surprise me from time to time. One neighbor has taken to putting balloon animal masterpieces in his front lawn. Another spent days using chalk to write out an abridged but thorough history of racial inequality in the United States, going back to 1619, on the sidewalk.
One such surprise came in the form of a pink and yellow golf cart. I saw it from a distance, careening through Cherrywood’s canopied streets. As it swerved closer, I could make out Zydeco music blaring from a bluetooth speaker. Closer still, a set of bullhorns with hawk’s feathers affixed to the grill with the words "Free Gumbo" boldly declaring this vehicle's majestic purpose.
Vic and Al’s gumbo-mobile was a surprise that I needed to learn more about.
Nic Patrizi gives away gumbo from his new restaurant Vic and Al’s.
Nic Patrizi is the type of restaurant entrepreneur that Austin’s restaurant scene was built around. The scraggly beard, hair pulled back, fast-talking Texan is someone wholly unpretentious but also willing to let people know that if they want a quick bite to eat, they might be better served heading down the block. He makes damned good food, but he isn’t going to let making a quick buck get in the way of making sure the experience he builds around your meal is as exceptional as the food itself.
Nic Patrizi drives his gumbo-mobile through Cherrywood in East Austin.
My first impression of Nic was while in line for Patrizi’s, an Italian food truck on Manor Road on the east side of Austin. He carried himself in a way that gave the impression that “this guy owns the place”—it turns out that he did. Patrizi’s is a food truck that has a thirty-minute line every single night, pretty much from the moment it opens. Yet Nic and his team have managed to turn the agonizing drudgery of waiting into a curated experience. They’ll hold your spot in line as you get a drink, offer house-made snacks, and go through the entire menu to help strategize your order so that the moment you hit the register, you’ve already built the perfect meal.
Having learned from his experiences at Patrizi’s, Nic was slated to open Vic and Al’s, a brick-and-mortar across the street from the food truck, serving Cajun cuisine and craft cocktails. He was ready to implement the same type of forward-thinking experience building into a streamlined dining experience.
As COVID-19 forced restaurants to temporarily shut their doors, pivot to take out, and generally reevaluate the state of their businesses, Nic was days away from opening Vic and Al’s. Needless to say, things didn’t go quite as planned.
As impending layoffs threatened service industry workers, some owners put their people before profit and figured out creative ways to keep their businesses afloat while taking care of their employees. Other owners, including some large restaurant groups with national holdings, laid off entire workforces with little more than a bag of produce that was already on its way out. The Austin service industry came grinding to a halt, wiping out an entire community’s source of income. At the same time, cooks, bartenders, servers, and bussers accustomed to nights filled with lively banter between coworkers, drinks after work, and digging themselves out of the weeds were all of a sudden reckoning with a much slower pace and a very limited ability to connect with the communities they were a part of.
Seeing a need within the local service industry, Nic and his team paused their plans to open a new restaurant, and instead opened a soup kitchen, free for displaced service industry workers and whoever else needed something to eat. Nic quickly realized that the soup kitchen within Vic and Al’s became as much about providing for people’s mental health as it was a space dedicated to nurturing people’s physical health.
“Manor Road was already here.”
When asked about how he sees himself in the broader East Austin community and especially on Manor Road where he now runs two restaurants, Nic pointed to the past. “Manor Road was already here.”—meaning the community was already here. As opposed to seeing himself as a part of some new, he sees himself as entering an already established community, one that he respects deeply.
He pointed to the diversity that exists along Manor, which extends from the more affluent Cherrywood neighborhood through the more working-class neighborhoods that exist as Manor Road travels East across Airport Boulevard. And also to the diversity that exists within Austin’s service industry community more broadly.
His food truck Patrizi’s exists within a space called The VORTEX. It’s an outdoor space built around an artist-owned, alternative theatre space. Their 2018-2019 season showcased performances that ranged from American Blood Song: A Puppet Operetta of The Donner Party to black girl love, “an adaptation of [Anondra 'Kat'] Williams' short stories and poetry that looks at the everyday lives of black queer women and non-binary people.”
Learning from the inclusivity that Nic saw in The VORTEX, the soup kitchen at Vic and Al’s helped uplift a hurting service industry and the surrounding community during the initial fallout from the pandemic.
As unemployment payments started coming through, bringing some short-term financial security to service industry workers, it was time for Nic to refocus on Vic and Al’s, the soup kitchen, back to Vic and Al’s, the Cajun restaurant.
Nic’s passion and deep knowledge of Cajun food and culture is apparent. Having grown up in Beaumont, Texas, near the Louisiana border, his roots are in Cajun country. For him, Cajun cuisine is a style of cooking that is closely connected to the land and emphasizes using everything. “It’s storied, it’s seasonal, it’s fresh...It’s about process and history.”
“The end result is something beautiful, swampy, funky, and fun.”
He finds that a lot of people have a simplistic view of Cajun food—crawfish boils and shrimp po-boys. And while he finds beauty in people fighting over the best way to make barbecue shrimp for example, he also finds simplified characterizations to be “a slap in the face of the diaspora of Cajun cuisine.” A diaspora that draws from West African, French, and Italian cooking styles, to name a few. At the same time, a lot of people categorize what he’s doing as “a modern twist on Cajun”—a refrain he finds equally ridiculous.
Nic spent five minutes explaining how he makes Vic and Al’s demi-glace to describe why calling what they’re doing “a modern twist” doesn’t make sense.
While a “proper” demi-glace is made with veal bones and Bordeaux, Nic uses trimmings and the bones from his house-cured tasso ham combined with whatever combination of wine and spirits feels right, is on hand, and tastes good to him that day. The vegetables that make up the mirepoix he adds to the sauce are often scraps from other recipes and their combination never resembles a traditional mirepoix. Finally, he lets the sauce develop for five days instead of the more standard two.
“The end result is something beautiful, swampy, funky, and fun.” To Nic, that fluid and divergent process of using what’s on hand to build off classic techniques and traditional Cajun recipes is as Cajun as it gets.
The house made bitters at Vic and Al’s.
Terra Stahlbaum, Vic and Al’s Bar Manager.
Vic and Al’s cocktail menu was built around the same principles. As other restaurants chose to focus on making cocktail kits, Terra Stahlbaum, Vic and Al’s talented bar manager came up with a to-go cocktail program utilizing single-serve, heat-sealed bags.
As Terra was forced to reimagine her cocktail menu, she asked herself “What do I think people would want in this time?” She figured people wanted something fun, approachable, exciting, but also nothing intimidating. Most importantly, “I want you to get the taste of sitting at my bar from the comfort of your home.”
Ashlynn Patrizi prepares one of Vic and Al’s heat-sealed to-go cocktails.
She felt that even with cocktail kits, there’s some amount of work that needs to be done. With Vic and Al’s to-go cocktail program, it’s as easy as pouring the premade cocktail over ice.
While Terra has certainly been up for the dynamism required to navigate COVID-19 as a bar manager, “It’s hard not to see someone’s reaction to the cocktail I made.”
“We have regulars, but you don’t get an hour and a half with them a week. You get two minutes.”
Terra describes the distance that permeates every aspect of her job. “Distance from that initial reaction to that cocktail. Distance between orders. Distance between customers, but also distance between me and the final cocktail.”
As people take their drinks home, they present them in creative ways and post them to social media. Terra is able to see the final forms her cocktails take as different people add their own touches with different glassware and flare.
As members of the service industry return to work, the daily grind of working at a restaurant has created a disarming new reality for a community accustomed to a faster pace and less space. The reality that exists now is one in which distance exists where close proximity was the norm.
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To be greeted by a masked go-kart driver shelling out free gumbo as I walked through my neighborhood during a global pandemic was a goddamn miracle. But the more I learned about what Nic, Terra, and the team at Vic and Al’s, the more I’ve been drawn to their story.
If you’re lucky enough to be in Cherrywood in Austin, Texas as the sun starts to go down, listen not for the familiar plunking of an ice cream truck, but for the faint heartbeat of Zydeco hopefully getting louder as a wondrous, long-horned golf cart gets closer and closer.
If you don’t live in Cherrywood, I hope you can take solace in the fact that this gumbo go-kart simply exists. As we raise our glasses to computer screens for virtual happy hours instead of exchanging banter with our bartenders, it’s beautiful to watch people’s creativity come through in these amazing, inventive ways as they foster meaningful connections with their communities.
When things do begin to open back up and you come to Austin to escape the East Coast winter, for your best friend’s bachelorette, or to experience our decadent food culture first hand, make sure to stop by Vic and Al’s. There will probably be a line, but it’ll be worth the wait.
The way the light and wind catches the grasses throughout the Bay Area feels so familiar. If the breeze hits just right, a briny mist mixes with fog that has been filtered through dense eucalyptus. That’s what San Francisco smells like to me. September into October is my favorite time to be in the City. An always belated summer transitions to fall—the weather and light equally warm as the seasons change.
In high school and when I returned home during college, I would often bike to the various beaches scattered throughout the City and across the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d watch sunsets and walk alone at midnight as a challenge to myself to quiet the fear that would manifest in my stomach when it’s dark and you’re alone. But as those bike rides became more frequent, that fearful feeling turned into a feeling of comfort as I found solace in the wind that hurled eucalyptus fog and mist from the Bay against my face. I found solitude and comfort in those spaces.
Click and enlarge.
Before coming to San Francisco for a month-long visit, I had been thinking a lot about my memories of the City. I had been writing down those memories and considering how I could represent them through photography. Images of fishermen along the Embarcadero and waking up before sunrise to open a café came to the forefront of my imagination.
As I arrived, thick smoke from the fires burning throughout California blanketed the City for the first week of my trip. It felt somewhat irresponsible to be out shooting in all that pollution and it was also hard to put myself in the mental space of my past when the present was so vividly tragic and specific.
On its surface, this series began as an experimentation with medium-format film and fashion photography. But it quickly became the exploration of memory and my connection with San Francisco that I had been seeking. As the smoke cleared I planned a shoot with my brother Ruben Staszewski and his girlfriend, and my friend, Jenna Harkins.
From a purely visual standpoint, I was interested in photographing them because they’re objectively interesting subjects. Bright red hair, confidence in front of the camera, and an eclectic affinity for vintage clothing made for a really natural first couple of shoots—one planned and one spontaneous.
Looking at this redheaded couple, it could be easy to assume that these two models were cast to achieve a certain look. In reality, they’ve known each other since they were teenagers, are deeply in love, and navigating adulthood in San Francisco together. I find their connection, which feels like it could be out of a folktale really interesting. It adds meaning to the images we created together.
After our first shoot, I started using the landscapes where many of my memories are contained as a backdrop for this series. I tried to conjure the feelings contained within those memories while also expressing the individuality and connection of my two subjects. I see these images as an exploration of memory and space.
As we drove to the various locations we would be shooting, we talked about our memories, family, creativity, and our futures. While I was using photography to examine my past, Ruben, Jenna, and I were creating new memories in the present. Because of my photographic practice and the collaborative nature of this project, I was able to deepen my relationship with San Francisco and with Ruben and Jenna. I’m incredibly grateful to have had that experience and look forward to making more pictures with them whenever we’re all together again.
The first time I came to Suerte was as a guest. I, like so many others, had read about their house-made masa and took my partner Madelyn out for a celebratory dinner after a successful interview with a creative agency she would go on to work for.
We moved to Austin a few weeks later on December 1, 2018, I interviewed at Suerte two days later and started working a few days after that. So for me, my experience of living in Austin had always included working at Suerte.
In mid-March, that experience changed drastically as restaurants around the country were forced to make the difficult decision to layoff entire workforces. Sam, the owner of Suerte, Fermín the executive chef, and the management team had to make that same difficult decision. But unlike many employers who simply showed their former employees the door, the team at Suerte decided that they were going to show up for their people in a way that I had personally never experienced.
For over two months following the initial shelter-in-place order in Austin, thirteen of my former coworkers, managers, chefs, and the owner of the restaurant would go on to make enough food to make sure that every single former employee and their family members had delicious food to eat as we all scrambled to figure out what was next. Their generosity has left a lasting impact on me.
As a way of saying thank you, I decided to make a small book of portraits of the thirteen people who stayed on at Suerte, cooking food for us every single day. My goal was to capture some of the beauty that has been a part of this crazy experience. What I love about these portraits is how serene and confident everyone looks. Despite a challenging situation, the Suerte community continues to press onwards.
I shot the book on medium format film and used only two rolls of film. I shot a total of 20 frames and only printed books for the people I photographed. Creating those limitations made me feel like I was making something precious.
If you live in Austin and are thinking about where to grab take out, you should feel really good about doing it at Suerte. Not only will it be some of the best food you’ve ever had, but you’ll be supporting an incredibly generous group of people running their business the right way. I would highly recommend grabbing their Suadero taco kit, the esquites, and whatever seasonal dessert they’re offering. If you don’t live in Austin, but plan on coming at some point and want to support them, think about buying a gift card.
If you run your own business near Austin and would be interested in creating a similar type of book for your employees, I’d be excited to collaborate. Feel free to reach out.
Graffiti on the outside of the Austin Police Department Headquarters.
I, like so many people throughout the country, have been overwhelmed with emotion following the killings of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd and countless other unarmed black men and women at the hands of police. As a photographer living in Austin, when I saw that protests were scheduled in the city that has become my home I felt ready to use my skill set as a photographer to channel the anger, sadness, and pain that I was feeling into something positive.
People march from the Texas Capitol building in Austin on Sunday, May 31st to protest the police killings of Mike Ramos in Austin and George Floyd in Minneapolis.
Protestors gather in front of the Austin Police Department Headquarters on Saturday, May 30th.
“When I have my camera on me, I don’t forget that I’m a black human being”
As I posted my own images and scrolled through various social media feeds, I saw a growing collection of images from protests in every major city and beyond, but also a growing conversation about responsible documentation and representation in the photojournalism community surrounding the specific events taking place.
Scrolling through Instagram, Chris Facey’s words quoted from his piece with the New Yorker reminded me of my privilege.
“When I have my camera on me, I don’t forget that I’m a black human being”
As many people posted black squares in solidarity on “Blackout Tuesday”, Andre Wagner added to Facey’s sentiment.
“I'm sorry I can't do this blackout y'all--my everyday life has a been a protest...I've been crying the past few days out of frustration of wanting to tell more photo stories of my brothers and sisters but also wrestling with the feeling like it's not safe for me to do the work I've been called to do. Since the birth of this medium, black photographers' voices have been suppressed, though I feel strongly that we need to have work by people that understand what it feels like to be in this black body.”
As a white male photographer, I have the privilege to wear my camera—even in an incredibly tense situation with police officers—without considering my race, gender, or how I will be perceived. It’s incredibly important to recognize that privilege, especially now. As David Gonzalez put it on Facebook, “Now is NOT time to handicap which foto of Black suffering will win a Pulitzer. Especially now when your POC colleagues are worried about the safety of their fam, lives and community.”
On one hand, I believe it’s important that I use my privilege as a white photographer to go out and shoot. But in doing so I have to be conscious that my work does not take precedence over Black suffering, re-traumatize communities of color, or endanger the people I am photographing especially if those people are from an already marginalized community. I must also remember that Black and other POC photographers have been historically marginalized within the photojournalism community and elevate their voices as I tell my own stories.
The Authority Collective has created this valuable document for photographers hoping to create powerful work without causing harm. It’s specifically about photographing police brutality protests, but I think a lot they bring up can be extrapolated to other types of work.
Quoted in that document, filmmaker Ligaiya Romero explains:
“As photographers/filmmakers, we need to ask ourselves, is this image sousveillance (from the bottom pointing up, holding power-holders and oppressors accountable) or are we furthering surveillance (from the top pointing down, adding to a history of violence and surveillance of Black, Indigenous, and POC bodies, and creating a document that can be used to further that violence)?”
Checking Instagram on Monday afternoon, I saw an Instagram post from Nolan Trowe:
“Are your images hurting or helping?” he asked. Thinking back, I could clearly answer that question during Saturday’s protests. I wanted to thoughtfully showcase what I was seeing which included mostly peaceful protesting with some tense moments between protesters and police. I felt that my images accurately depicted the reality I saw while ensuring the safety of the people I was photographing—I felt that my images were helpful. At the same time, asking if my images are helping or hurting as I’m shooting brings up the possibility that I could be censoring my images.
While objectivity is at the foundation of photojournalism, the Authority Collective once again explains,
“When photojournalists use objectivity as a framework to excuse dangerous practices such as identifying vulnerable protesters, they are failing to see how they benefit from a political structure that encourages "objectivity" as a mode of oppression.”
As I arrived to Austin’s City Hall on Sunday afternoon, I felt differently than I had Saturday. As the Austin Justice Coalition canceled their official protest, I saw a larger number of agitators alongside a growing number of individuals wearing the subtle suggestions of white supremacy. I did not feel compelled to document the potential conflict. I should note that I was not on assignment so I was able to make that decision.
As I left City Hall I walked by Central Christian Church. I saw a woman who introduced herself as Janet Maykus, a Senior Minister standing quietly, but with purpose in front of her church.
She explained to me, “I wanted to be a calming presence” and specifically called out the white men she had seen driving by yelling things like “Start the revolution!” and “Burn it down!” She went onto say, “It’s not our [white people’s] place to say that...In crowds, things happen...it insights anger and aggression. I don’t want anyone to be hurt, I want voices to be heard.”
Her words resonated as I reflected on how photography has the potential to both uplift or harm its subjects.
“Start the revolution! Burn it down!”
“It’s not our [white people’s] place to say that...In crowds, things happen...it insights anger and aggression. I don’t want anyone to be hurt, I want voices to be heard.”
Janet Maykus, Senior Minister at Central Christian Church
So many prestigious photography awards and the photojournalism industry in general often rewards photographers who capitalize on the pain of already marginalized communities. As members of various photography communities, we—white photographers especially—must make a more concerted effort to stop making those types of pictures especially when we are not part of the communities we are documenting.
I wouldn't expect my photos of the protests in Austin to win awards, but I've decided that as a white photographer I won't be submitting my images for any awards. I would encourage other white photographers to consider doing the same. To be clear, I only photographed the protests in Austin for less than a day and a half. I know that I am not making any real personal sacrifice by choosing not to submit my images for any awards.
Of course, the issues David Gonzalez and the Authority Collective raise don’t start with people submitting photos to win awards, but rather taking them in the first place. That being said, change can only come from within the photojournalism community if white photographers make conscious choices to relinquish the power we have and elevate marginalized voices.
I don’t expect that all white photojournalists will decide to skip submitting their images of the ongoing protests against police brutality. But what if they did? Of course Black photographers have the talent to win those awards on their own, but wouldn’t that be a powerful form of solidarity from within the photojournalism community?
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A few days removed from last weekend’s events, I am seeing a lot of powerful images that reveal some of the shortcomings of my own documentation of last weekend’s events. The police did severely and even critically injure protesters, which is something I didn’t capture thoroughly.
The photos in this post wouldn’t negatively impact anyone, but did I leave out an important part of the story?
Because I wasn’t on assignment I approached the protests in a way that was more about documenting my own experience rather than capturing the news as a photojournalist. A big part of me also very simply didn’t want to get sprayed with mace or shot with sandbags—something many other photojournalists have endured in the last week.
Again this makes me think about my own privilege as a white man not directly impacted by police brutality. I recognize that reflecting on my own privilege within a specific industry feels self-indulgent to a certain extent when people’s lives are at stake. I recognize that this topic and conversation is one of many that I need to be having.
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If you have any comments, responses, or criticism regarding this post or my work more broadly I’m open to hearing it all. I will continue to educate myself, consider the intentional and unintentional impacts of my work, and spark conversations with friends, acquaintances, and strangers.
I am personally making my way through this document: Resources for Photographers and Beyond on Anti-Racism. It was also compiled by the Authority Collective.
I’ll finish this post with a short list of Black photographers, artists, editors, and organizations whose work and presence on social media have shaped how I personally think about issues of representation within the photography industry. Check out their work, hire them, and buy their books and prints!
Authority Collective
Diversify Photo
Women Photograph
Alexandra Bell
Brent Lewis
Walé Oyéjidé, Esq.
Dana Scruggs
Deana Lawson
Rahim Fortune
Dawoud Bey
Montsho Jarreau Thoth
Gabriella Angotti-Jones
Radcliffe “Ruddy” Roy
Kris Graves
Ibarionex Perello
Joshua Kissi
Adrian Octavius Walker
Miranda Barnes
Chris Facey
Andre Wagner
During the seven-week Joshua Tree Highlands Artist Residency, I logged over 6,000 miles in a rental car. I drove all over the Inland Empire exploring palm tree farms and ghost towns. I traversed Joshua Tree National Park and the Morongo Basin where I observed a rapidly changing physical and cultural landscape. The experience of creating this body of work was incredibly important to me as I am from California and felt a renewed connection with landscapes that felt like home.
I’m currently socially distancing myself in my new home in Austin, Texas where my partner Madelyn and I are rearranging furniture, manicuring our yard, and trying to make our space feel as comforting as possible during these strange times. As many of us are thinking about how to improve and revitalize our homes, I thought it would be a great time to share some prints that I have ready to ship—all they need is an empty wall to fill. All images are an edition of 10 and come mounted on gator foam. My artist statement can be seen here.
If you’re interested in any of these images or if you’d like to know more information about a specific print, send me an email. I intentionally made much of this series with pairs of images in mind. If you’re interested in more than one print I’d be happy to work something out so they can stay together.
In January of 2017, I traveled to Mongolia to help my friend and fellow reporter Peter Bittner produce a documentary project about the catastrophic pollution problem in Ulaanbaatar. The South China Morning Post recently published a new version of that documentary which gives me the opportunity to share it once again and look back on some of the work I produced during that trip.
In addition to this video, I wanted to share a collection of photos I took in Nalaikh—a mining town that feels like a ghost town reborn.
Check out the video and scroll down to see the images.
A small-scale mining operation taking place on the grounds of the closed, state-run coal mine at Nalaikh. Nalaikh, shown in the distance, is just under an hour away from Ulaanbaatar. Miners fill and refill as many small trucks as they can each day which are driven to the capital.
Nalaikh was a state-run coal mine originally opened in 1922 as Mongolia’s first industrial mining operation. As a socialist government gave way to democracy in the early ’90s, a combination of shrinking subsidies and one final mining catastrophe lead the government to close and abandon the mine.
At the turn of the twenty-first-century, consecutive zuud—exceptionally harsh winters—decimated animal populations across Mongolia forcing many nomadic herders to move to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia’s capital city.
A rising need for raw coal to fuel stoves and warm the homes of former herders combined with a high unemployment rate led groups of unskilled laborers to re-enter Nalaikh’s frozen soil in search of untapped coal deposits.
“Miners risk their lives and health everyday and live in poverty as their work contributes to a pollution problem that has reached catastrophic levels—regularly five times worse than Beijing.”
Miners bag and shuttle coal sometimes hundreds of meters below the surface.
Wooden frames keep the mines supported, but there are accidents each year where miners are killed.
Miners work into the night when temperatures can reach -40 degrees Fahrenheit.
These images are meant to shed light on the realities of contemporary life in urban Mongolia. Nalaikh is a city where urban and rural lifestyles intersect and where government corruption and neglect run rampant. Miners risk their lives and health everyday and live in poverty as their work contributes to a pollution problem that has reached catastrophic levels—regularly five times worse than Beijing.
While nomadic culture has certainly shaped contemporary Mongolian identities, the majority of Mongolia’s population now lives in an urban setting. Mongolian herders often express pride and freedom their lifestyles afford them. Speaking with Ganzorig, a miner at Nalaikh, he explained that even though he realizes that he risks his life working in the mines, “There’s no other choice.”
“There’s no other choice.”
Speaking with Ganzorig, a miner at Nalaikh, he explained that even though he realizes that he risks his life working in the mines, “There’s no other choice.”
After the coal is mined in Nalaikh, it is driven to distribution centers in Ulaanbaatar where it is broken down by hand and hammer into smaller pieces to be sold by the kilo.
One of Ulaanbaatar’s ger districts at sunrise during a relatively smogless day. On a good day, the wind will blow the coal smoke away from Ulaanbaatar.
On a bad pollution day, which is much more common during the winter, Ulaanbaatar’s location in a valley surrounded by mountains keeps the city’s smog trapped.
Bowie High School is situated directly along the US-Mexico border in El Paso, Texas. Each day, a large percentage of the Bowie High School soccer team wakes up before 5am to make the long and tedious commute from Juárez to El Paso. American citizens whose extended families often straddle the border, their days start early and end late as their commitment to being student-athletes regularly keeps them on the field until 10 o’clock at night.
The scoreboard at Bowie High School’s Baty-Simmang Memorial Stadium situated directly in front of the US-Mexico border wall in El Paso, Texas.
Bowie High School is in a neighborhood of El Paso called El Segundo Barrio which is part of the city’s South Side. While the entire city of El Paso is impossible to separate from its cultural and familial ties to Mexico and Juárez, the South Side is especially connected to that heritage. Like so many majority black and Hispanic neighborhoods in the US cities, the median income in El Segundo Barrio is among the lowest of El Paso’s neighborhoods. This means that Bowie has to stretch its limited resources for students whose aspirations can include going to college in the US.
The Bowie High School Varsity soccer team warming up for practice the day before their game against El Paso High School.
Yet while many Americans see the border as a highly politicized part of the country,
for these high school students, it’s seen more as an annoyance that complicates and extends their daily commute.
From left, Christian Osorio, Eduardo Moreno, and Carlos Ortega Snow on their morning walk from The Bridge of the Americas border crossing to Bowie. Snow delayed first period at school which gave them time to have a quick snowball fight at the Chamizal National Memorial across the street from Bowie.
Bowie Varsity Soccer Coach Arnold McElroy watches his players as they practice the night before their game against El Paso High School.
Coach McKelroy’s mantras “Don’t waste time!” and “Do it right!” were constantly in players’ ears as he reminded them of the lead that was squandered in a loss to El Paso High last year.
At the same time, Bowie’s teachers and administration are acutely aware of the challenges that many of their students face and have become experts in navigating the different programs and opportunities available to their students.
While many student-athletes cross the border each day, the same opportunity does not always exist for their parents who are not all American citizens. Attendance at most sporting events is low as an inability to cross the border or the financial need to work long hours keeps parents at home or at work during games.
The team huddles with team captain Kevin Ibarra (10) to crack jokes and game plan during half time.
Josh Escarcega (9), Israel Reyes (20), Eduardo Moreno (11), and the rest of the team clap for the fans who braved cold weather to watch their win.
As I was driving to El Paso, I found out that National Geographic had recently published a piece about Bowie High School’s cheerleading team. The photographer Sara Naomi Lewkowicz and reporter Nina Strochlic did an incredible job. I don’t feel that there’s anything I could add to their incredibly thorough reporting work so I’ll have to move on from this story. I’m still glad I made the trip and hope to continue similar reporting work along the border in the near future.
It has been exactly a year since I moved to the Lone Star State. I have grown so much as a photographer and really found a home here in Austin. I’ve been thrilled to get a good amount of local freelance work through the Austin American-Statesman and San Antonio Express-News which has allowed me to connect with the communities I am now a part of through my work.
Looking through some of my favorite images from the last year, what has stood out has been the diversity of ideas and experiences that present themselves, sometimes on consecutive days, sometimes in the same image. While often in opposition, each of the individuals in these photos has the same commitment to bettering their world as they see it. Whether that’s a student demanding government action at a climate strike or a minor league pitcher hoping to make it to the big leagues, the Central Texans I have encountered are committed to actively creating a better future for themselves, their families, and their communities.
In the next year, I hope to reach a deeper level of connection with local communities in Central Texas and Texas more broadly and tell increasingly more compelling stories.
A “Texas Welcomes All” podium stands empty in the Old Texas Supreme Court at the State Capitol before a news conference on March 27, 2019. Representatives from the business and tourism sectors argued against lawmakers voting for a series of drafted bills that would allow businesses to refuse service to members of LGBTQ+ communities along religious grounds.
A crowd of predominantly school-aged protesters gathers at a climate strike at the Texas Capitol building in Austin. This climate strike was a part of a series of September 19, 2019 protests that took place in cities all over the globe.
Eisa Rafat, carried by his friend Msaed Almasri, uses a megaphone to engage with the growing crowd at a climate strike at the Texas State Capitol.
Pastor Stephen Broden of the Fair Park Bible Fellowship Church in Dallas, Texas leads a prayer to end a news conference for “Save Chick-fil-A Day” and rally for religious freedom at the Texas State Capitol.
Patrick Von Dohlen, a candidate for San Antonio City Council District 9, speaks at an April 17, 2019 news conference at the Texas Capitol in Austin promoting religion freedom. The San Antonio City Council voted against Chick-fil-A opening at the San Antonio International Airport with council members citing the company’s financial contributions to anti-LGBTQ+ organizations as their reason for opposition.
Close-ups from a Gun Owners of America rally on August 22, 2019 at the Texas State Capitol. Gun rights activists spoke against restricting open carry in Texas following a deadly shooting at a Walmart in El Paso and consequent legislation drafted to combat gun violence in Texas.
Outfielder Yordan Alvarez (left), outfielder Kyle Tucker (center), and pitcher Forrest Whitley (right) pose during the 2019 media day for the Round Rock Express, the minor league, triple-A affiliate of the Houston Astros.
Kyle Tucker (left) and Yordan Alvarez (right) started their 2019 season with the Round Rock Express and ended it playing game seven in the World Series for the Houston Astros. Forrest Whitley (center) had a disappointing season in the minors, but is still considered a top prospect and hopes to make the major league Astros next season.
Shawneen Townsend and her husband Jeff Townsend pose with a finished tray of chile rellenos at their family’s annual chile fry in Buda, Texas. Jeff isn’t humble about his wife’s cooking describing the finished product as “one of the best meals you’ll ever have…They’re so good they breach your senses.”
Mark Townsend, who has taken the lead at his mother Shawneen’s chile relleno frys, takes a break from frying chiles to jump on the trampoline with his son Ellison.
El Paso-style chile relleno with all the fixings made by Shawneen Townsend and her family. Their annual chile relleno fry always takes place towards the end of August to mark the beginning of hatch chile season.
Montsho pours tea into a gong dao bei or justice cup.
Each component in the Chinese tea pouring tradition has a practical purpose. The gong dao bei, which translates to the justice cup or fairness pitcher, serves the purpose of homogenizing the different strengths of tea coming out of a teapot.
Montsho Jarreau Thoth
“The tea found me.”
Montsho pours tea for himself every day, often multiple times a day, but he is always open to share that experience with anyone willing to slow down to his pace.
Montsho’s introduction into traditional Chinese tea pouring came unexpectedly, as he puts it “The tea found me.”
Diagnosed with leukemia in 2014, a friend brought a small gaiwan, a Chinese lid and bowl tea setup, to the hospital where he was recovering.
Even before this introduction to Chinese tea pouring, Montsho had been pouring yerba mate at parties.
“I had social anxiety about bouncing around. Pouring tea allowed people to come to me.”
So while the social aspects of tea pouring were nothing new for Montsho, stumbling upon the Chinese tradition was enlightening for him. The tea itself was much more complex and nuanced and he found the system itself equally enthralling.
Needless to say, Montsho became fascinated with traditional Chinese tea pouring. Simultaneously, he was still recovering from the intense leukemia treatments he had gone through.
“I was over drinking [alcohol] as a culture because I couldn’t really participate...Even being around cigarette smoke wasn’t good for me.” Tea, by contrast, “made my body feel good, it made me heal.”
“When people see me pouring tea in this way, it can expand their idea of what a Black, male-bodied person can be.”
Embedding himself in Austin’s small, but vibrant tea pouring community Montsho also quickly found that “People love together around tea.”
As I sat drinking the tea Montsho poured me, I felt that love. The time and effort he had put into learning everything he possibly could about this specific practice were communicated through intentional thought and movement. The pouring itself became as much a part of the experience as the liquid I was drinking.
As Montsho explains it, “Myself and the tea plant…are having a conversation. You are witness to that conversation. And to the degree that I can have a good, respectful conversation with the tea, that’s the degree to which you will enjoy watching and bearing witness as the person being served.”
As Montsho continued his conversation with the tea, we continued our own. He spoke of his experiences traveling through rural China meeting and learning from tea farmers, he recanted proverbs “Chan Cha Yi Wei—Tea and Zen are of one flavor”, and spoke of “cultural engineering” an idea that was foremost in his mind.
As a cultural engineer Montsho sees himself as doing more than simply pouring tea. “When people see me pouring tea in this way, it can expand their idea of what a Black, male-bodied person can be. When Black people have tea with me...it gives them license to participate in culture that is not necessarily their own, but that with study and intention could be.”
As I watched Montsho effortlessly and comfortably engage in a tradition that he has clearly made his own, I felt that his example would give anyone agency to pursue something outside of what is expected of them.
In a way, I came to see Montsho as a living embodiment of a justice cup.
The energy he puts out into the world is infectious and the environment he creates as he pours tea has the potential to promote connection and inclusivity.
Leaving his daily tea pouring I felt more open, awake, and enlightened by the experience and conversation. Montsho was quick to point out the positive effects that can be attributed to the caffeine and theanine found in the tea we were drinking. But a lot of it had to do with the environment he created, the intention he set as he poured his afternoon tea.
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Montsho often pours tea at Guan Yin Tea House in Austin, Texas. You can follow his tea-related endeavors on Instagram @slowhandtea and his photography and art-making @montsho.
My assignment was to shoot a weeknight dinner at a multigenerational home in Laredo, Texas. My day included just under 500 miles of driving to and from Laredo and 3 hours of shooting once I got there. I was thrilled to be included in this beautiful, worldwide collaboration of photographers, but wanted to share some of the images I captured during the assignment that weren’t published.
Here’s a link to the published piece. Scroll down to the “Texas, United States” section to see my image.
An American flag flies outside of the Garza family’s home in Laredo, Texas.
Grayson, his brother Emric, and mother Alyssa play as grandmother Patti Garza prepares dinner at their home in Laredo, Texas.
Grayson helps his grandmother Patti prepare dinner at their home in Laredo, Texas.
Fabian Garza, a middle school English teacher, communicates with his students as his wife Patti Garza prepares dinner in their home in Laredo, Texas.
Alyssa Garza, having just woken up, plays with her sons Emric and Grayson before heading to work the night shift at a nearby Love’s truck stop in Laredo, Texas.
The Garza family sits down for dinner.
Grayson relaxes and watches “American Ninja Warrior” after dinner before getting ready for bed.
Grayson and his family’s Siamese cat Anayha play after dinner.
A crowd of predominantly school-aged protesters gathers at a climate strike at the Texas Capitol building in Austin. This climate strike was a part of a series of September 19, 2019 protests that took place in cities all over the globe.
Rapper Nipsey Hussle was tragically shot and killed on March 31, 2019 in front of his own store, The Marathon Clothing, in South Los Angeles. While his presence and positive influence were certainly felt most in South LA where he grew up, his murder has been met nationally with an outpouring of support as his work as a rapper and community leader has come into the spotlight.
Ink Empire, a tattoo shop at Chicon and Rosewood in Austin, Texas.
Tracy and his wife Matilda Honey have made East Austin home for their tattoo shop. Working together with one of their artists, Raymond “Rage” Mendoza (shown here), they put up a mural to honor Nipsey on the outside of their shop.
Tracy (left) pulls up a YouTube interview with Nipsey (0:36) from early in his career to explain why he was such an inspiration. When asked why he wasn’t “blinging” like so many other rappers Nipsey explains, “All that is cool for the image and all that, but all them is liabilities ya feel me? I’d rather invest in some real estate...invest in some assets as opposed to trick off my money on some liabilities like diamonds...cars that lose value as soon as you drive them off the lot...A real asset, take care of my people.”
Tracy explains, “First and foremost, we’re a black-owned business, which is something I take pride in. It’s not as praised as it should be.” Nipsey may have been a famous rapper at the time of his death, but he certainly came from humble beginnings. “Someone like Nipsey shows you there’s no limit. That’s someone I want to be like.”
In addition to Nipsey’s business-minded attitude, he also preached unity. As a self-proclaimed Compton Crip, Nipsey made a point of collaborating with rappers from his rival gang, the Bloods. In his video for “Last Time That I Checc’d” he raps alongside YG both wearing their respective gang colors—blue and red. While Nipsey stopped gangbanging when he shifted his energy and focus to rapping, he didn’t shy away from his past.
“We have a tattoo shop. Who's to say we can’t have a burger spot, a barber shop?” While Tracy and Matilda’s business is still young, Tracy pointed to a couple of lines from Nipsey’s last release “Racks In The Middle” which stuck out to him. “Champagne while I shop, hope I splurge foolish / Closin' escrow twice this month, both commercial units”.
From left to right, Raymond “Rage” Mendoza, Matilda Honey, and Tracy at Ink Empire tattoo shop on Chicon and Rosewood in Austin, Texas.
