John Walsh speculates in this article about why Ernest Hemmingway committed suicide.  He doesn’t deny Hemmingway’s brilliance and acts of bravery, but he paints of picture of a man captivated by an image, addicted to alcohol, and bent on self-destruction.

What was bugging Hemingway? Why all the drinking, the macho excess, the manic displays of swaggering? Why was he so drawn to war, shooting, boxing and conflict? Why did he want to kill so many creatures? Was he trying to prove something? Or blot something out of his life?

I’m struck that a man like Hemmingway, who seemed to live a BIG life that others aspire to, might have never been truly free; this man of far reaching imagination, a genius at crafting stories, may never have seen his own story truly.  Did he taste the fullness of life, or was he so desperate to escape a shallow existence that he attempted it with a pen and his imagination?

I know what it’s like to walk around looking for stories and pictures, spinning bits and pieces of narratives and dialogues as I walk like kicking stones. I can easily get lost in the words; it’s like listening to another voice, or voices, that can please the crowd better than I can — a fantasy. What if I got lost in that?

If I write, or tell stories with pictures or video, I want these to come from myself.  I don’t want to craft myself from the stories.

I’d rather give up playing with words and images entirely than lose my own often tenuous connections to the world and people and God in this moment — to my own wife and children, who are upstairs going to sleep as I type. The greatest story I know is the story I get to live, and it’s happening way to fast, or slow, to write about.  I suppose I could write about watching the wind blow through the grass as I walked by the river this evening, but who would want to read about that — or write about it (once the moment passes). Okay, Annie Dillard. I don’t know how she did it; and I could only read half of that book.

I think I’ll go peak in at those kids now.

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The week before he joined an “art party” at the children’s center where he lives.  A teacher has been working with kids at the center since mid-2007, and some of the older students are very good. They helped the younger kids during the art party, taking up brushes occasionally to teach by example. The results were amazing, and moving if you know the stories behind them.

I made a short video documenting the event with some follow-up video the next weekend (when I took this photo). I’ll post that project eventually, but I’ve been asked to wait and keep it fresh for everyone. If they have an exhibition in Phnom Penh, they’ll debut the video then.

I like this photo. I like the image of creating a painting, and it has a subscript for me. It’s a boy at an orphanage painting his home.  I don’t know his particular story, because he’s new to the center, but it’s a fact that the vast majority of children and youth in orphanages have homes and relatives outside the orphanage: grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers and sisters. Most still have one living parent (and a few have two). The number one reason they are in orphanages is poverty. There are many orphanages but few family support services.

It’s not surprising that a child in an orphanage would paint his home, but maybe it should challenge us.

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Ladies at the Russian Market (2008)

I went to the Russian Market today to start work on a long term photo story. I know LOTS of people have taken pictures there, but I’ve never seen any substantive body of work to tell the story of the place. That’s what I’d like to do.

I brought a photograph that I took almost three years ago (see above). It wasn’t hard to find the shop, and though I didn’t recognize the woman behind the counter, she recognized herself in the picture immediately. That was exciting! Other vendors came, they rounded up another one of the ladies pictured, and they all talked about what has changed, and pointed out several things that haven’t. I told her my intention to visit the market regularly, and she seemed very supportive, as was everyone else I talked with. I spent more time talking than using the camera, which suited me fine. I have time for that later. It was great just practicing Khmer and starting to build the relationships I’ll need to do this story well.

This is the woman in the middle of the picture above. She started to give me a lesson in Khmer language, or cooking, based on this plant.

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My daughters have a flair for drama. They all disappeared upstairs one day and came down in fantastic outfits and covered with face paint. Reia dressed up Maika in hearts, and I’ve given her an extra dose of angst in this black and white effect.

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I took a group of Japanese to a school in a very poor community. They visited each grade level, sang songs, then asked and answered questions. Each time they asked the kids, “What is your dream for the future?”

A first grader said he dreams of having a job, that’s it, followed by another who said he wants to be a motodop (a motorcycle taxi driver). Several others said they dream of having a factory job. What dreams? I thought. Working in a factory is a hard life: 12 hour days, six days a week, about 60 dollars a month (25 cents an hour). That wage is just enough to survive on, barely.

Some  second graders also mentioned factory jobs, with a couple exceptions, one who wants to be a teacher and another who wants to be an engineer. The third and fourth graders gradually abandoned the factory theme in favor of more stereotypical dream jobs: doctor, lawyer, engineer…

I think the youngest children were  repeating what they overhear their parents and older siblings hoping for–steady if brutal work they can get. The older kids have learned the list of obvious jobs that are supposed to make you rich and give you a better life. But they don’t know other options in between, and likely only have impressions of what engineers, doctors, and lawyers actually do.

I have another Cambodian friend who is older and wants to start her own business. She grew up in a distant province in a very poor family. I asked her when she began to dream with such ambition, and she told about going to an English school as a child and the teacher who inspired her there. Her dream business is to run an English school making money and giving hope.

Finally, a few days ago, I met a young woman who worked in the garbage dump here in Phnom Penh from age six to sixteen. She collected stuff (plastic and items) from the trash and sold it to recyclers for a dollar or two a day. Now in her late teens, she speaks English and has a decent job in a shop at an international school. Several years ago, a foreigner sponsored her to attend school and get basic vocational training (computer and English).

I asked her how she feels when she thinks back to her life at the dump, and she said: I feel so proud of myself. I never thought I’d do anything better than working at the dump, but now I speak English and I have a good job. And I feel thankful for the man who sponsored me.”

These stories remind me poverty is not merely about money or ability. It’s about freedom, access and opportunity — and relationships.

And that….reminds me of this video…

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