This may be my favorite image. At the time it was taken, I was in a very euphoric place. I was 18 and had traveled to St. Louis to join a circus. It was one of the first times in my life I felt completely independent and free. And it almost didn't happen. My mom had her foot down that I should not go after I repeatedly tried to convince her that I'd be taken care of and had a place to stay. After about a week of pouting, my father secretly helped me buy a ticket and a few days later I was off. In reality, though, I didn't have a place to stay and no one was there to watch after me. I just assumed I'd sleep in a tent on the premises after I met up with my contact. I didn't calculate, however, that St. Louis would have a record breaking heat-wave that year and the circus would sit on top of black asphalt.
I spent my first day falling in love with St. Louis. I walked around the arch, fell asleep in the park, watched gigantic trees float down the Mississippi, admired St. Louis' amazing old-world architecture and rode the light-rail. I was traveling alone and felt completely at peace with the world. Strangers kept speaking to me out of curiosity and expressing worry for my safety in St. Louis, especially a cop I would see every night at 2 a.m., after the last show and cleanup. St. Louis is dangerous, apparently.
But I can't say I was completely alone. I'll never forget the musicians, who were the first performers to warm up to me. Certainly, I owe a lot to Hovey (78 years young at the time!), the juggler, who took me under his wing, and with whom I spent my afternoons with in his RV hiding from the heat, playing cards, and talking endlessly about Ancient Egypt. Also, the lively, liberated manager, the somewhat vain but sweet clown, the crazy and mesmerizingly good-looking Cossacks, the Mer-man (who would throw water at me) and the two Mexican women I met in Soulard.
I moved to the historic Soulard neighborhood when the heat was unbearable and all the performers moved into hotels. I was broke, and there was a hostel I stayed at that was empty except for 2 Mexican, who bought me cream sodas everyday and took me to their cousin's wedding. I was in love with the neighborhood and its strange isolation. I thought I might never leave it.
One night, when I was coming back from the circus, I found by a gate the book The Outsiders. I stayed up all night reading it and assumed there was a higher reason I stumbled upon it. Once finished, I called my friend Sarah and had one of the best conversations we've probably ever had. I sat on top of a rusty, old coke bottle machine, petting a black cat and just broke everything apart. I was contemplating so many things, feeling so alive and questioned the relevance of experiencing them alone. I knew what I was doing was different.
And what's the relevance of me writing all of this? Well, when the Washington Post reporter asked me why I do photojournalism, specifically photographing subcultures, I had a hard time explaining and kept tripping over my own words. I just wanted to tell her the story of joining the circus one Summer. I think its easy after such an experience to want to dedicate your life to a camera or pen.
List #5:
1. The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono. I found this book a few months ago in Blagden Alley. Some librarian deity wants me to read more.
2. Another reason i do what i do... i heart Stephan Hawkin!
