by Grryo Community | May 24, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
THE TRANSLATION
Ritsona Refugee Camp, Northern Greece. 20th & 21st May 2016
As of 20th May 2016, there are 54,230 refugees living in Greece & the Islands that only has a capacity for 42,100, according to UNHCR (UN High Commissioner for Refugees).
On a dark, overcast day in Northern Greece, at a disused crumbling airforce base surrounded by pine trees, I met Hamza, a 14 year old boy that wants not only to make a difference but to affect real change.
He had quietly sat in his tent one day and wrote a well educated, intelligent letter to the heads of states of influential countries to put across the point of the Refugee children and ask for change. He asked his Uncle, living in Germany, to translate it into English & a volunteer called Elena to translate it from English into German & other languages. Elena is a friend of one of my sons, I adore her & we follow each other on Instagram where she posted a copy of the translation & so this story begins.
Hamza is a normal boy, loves pizza, badminton, football & his computer, enjoys Physics, Biology, Sciences at school, fan of Batman & Spiderman films & wants to be a lawyer for human rights when he grows up, but hasn’t been in school for 2 years. The war has aged him, he seems much older than 14.
As Hamza shows me round, he tells me he loves all the people here and wants them all to be able to leave together, to meet up with their families who are waiting in other European countries. I also realise he blushes when I ask him to tell the story of the translation, to each unwilling & suspicious of a photographer/journalist refugee. Hamza hadn’t told anyone, other than his mother, that he had written the letter. As his confidence grows, along with the blushing & laughter, the people of Ritsona open up, for Hamza.
Ritsona camp is 2 1/2 months old, mainly Syrian, some Afghans, Yazidi’s & Iraqi’s, but really its impossible to be exact. Lacks electricity & running water. Has hot 3 showers, 6 cold showers, 38 stench filled toilets for…900 people. The food that arrives is bland & monotonous. What they really want is to cook their own meals. They want to leave.
They are a strong, independent people, highly educated & skilled. They ran the camp themselves until NGO’s arrived with specific roles. They have organised a community life, football matches are played every evening, 8 teams are organised. Concerts & entertainment are arranged within the group. They build their own furniture from anything they can find, fires, seating areas and have a strong sense of trying to help their own community. Not all like what they have become, some ashamed of others dependancy. The woman wear coloured Hijab’s on purpose to show they are not ISIS. The peace sign is shown everywhere. Private & proud attributes repeat, as I down another strong sweet coffee surrounded by overwhelming generosity from people that have nothing but also some of the best & warm company I have been in for a while.
Meals are handed out 3 times daily.
Refugees sit wherever they can and eat the provisions, clothes dry on the trees and they have tried to cover the open windows with plastic sheeting against the cold.
The volunteers at Ritsona are astounding and some of the best & most dedicated that I have seen. They work beyond their shifts daily, are dealing with recurrent refugees mental health problems, lack of the most basic facilities, running water, medical, electricity, drainage, etc., and have achieved extraordinary things. This is proven in the respect, friendship & love shown by the refugees to the volunteers.
The children need schooling and education. Almost everyone is suffering from PTSD, many have mental issues due to the wars & the dangerous ripple effect within families is occurring. Add this present situation and frustration & despair is obvious. Many talk of their past lives, normal houses, jobs, lifestyles, hobbies, computers, universities etc.,. Normal life. Then they talk of their harrowing experiences, war, killing, the extreme brutality of humanity removed everything normal. Made worse by what & how they are living now. Europe is responsible for this and a real danger of refugee camps becoming detention camps.
Mohammad, 40, and his 30 year old wife Aisa had the first baby to be born in camp. They named her Ritsona. At 1 1/2 months, Ritsona is paralysed & has already undergone 2 operations, leaving her with full length scars on her abdomen & the length of her spine. They are Syrian Kurds & also have a 2 year old daughter.
Shero, 10, and Mohamad,13, are both from Alepo in Syria. Shero misses chicken & Mohamad misses pizza.
A group of Syrians organised 8 teams, Tishreen; Rojava; Ismael; Jigar; Portugal; Ritsona & Aleppo. There was growing excitement about who would make the semi final. The daily match is all they have to look forward to.
Hadi is Hamz’a 7yr old younger brother. He loves running, football, chicken & trees. Like many at Ritsona, Hadi has PTSD-depression & hyperarousal; on edge, irritability, angry outbursts and lack of concentration.
Many containers, some NGO storage, some random are in and around the camp
Robani, with her newborn Hind-Hani, is 25yrs with 4 children. Syrian Kurds and 2 months at Ritsona.
This is Hamza’s world, his present, his now normal. He see’s how hope is sliding. If they are unable to leave at all, he is worried. He is 14 years old boy. He wants people to know that the children see it all and don’t know what to do. He wants to do something, to ask the people who control their futures to return them to normal life, to begin the healing & contributing in normal society. In Hamza & his brothers, I see the same as I see in my children, normal kids, and I cannot pass by.
People light fires, not only for warmth, but for light, cooking and to ward off the mosquitos, snakes, scorpions & wild boars. Fires are always burning at Ritsona & given that it is in a pine forest, there is a real risk.
© Caroline de Bertodano May 2016
Caroline de Bertodano is a documentary & street photographer that believes in truth in all its forms and no labels. Trained in music and Art History & worked in Modern Art for 12 years. Became a photographer at 37 whilst living in Japan for 3 years. Raised a family. Her work is in collections worldwide. “There is a place I go behind a lens where I disappear. I have no real idea of how or what I do, I just know there is untold peace & courage in that space”
Find Caroline de Bertodano on Facebook | Instagram | Eyeem | Google Plus | Steller
by Grryo Community | May 18, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
After several years without taking pictures, I started to take pictures of the streets and people from my city. I have always been interested in street photography, but even if a lot of people tag me in this style, I don’t feel like a street photographer. I like to think that with the experience, I have reached an abstract world, without location or time, and what I like the most is to imagine the different stories that can hide in each photograph that I’ve taken.
Welcome to my world.
1- The King of Fools
For years, nobody has lived at the castle. Every resident, except one, the king, abandoned it leaving to its fate. Even so, every day at the same time, he goes out to the balcony to give a speech to a kingdom which tired of hearing him, which decided to leave the land, looking for another castle and a new king to hear.
2- Balcony
It’s been a long time that he has been looking out of the window, seeing people crossing… he waves, and when pedestrians look up, they only see a black figure, unrecognizable. They continue walking, ignoring the voice that calls them from the window.
3- The Cathedral
The Cathedral is full of windows.There, the people can do just one thing: wander around, lost in the long hallways, hoping that the light that shines through the windows can help them remember why they were spending so much time in a space in which they don’t even remember arriving.
4- Code Bar
At the break, every worker goes to the patio to smoke a cigarette. They don’t speak with each other; each one stays in a strategic place where they can’t bother one another. Surrounded by the bars that separate them from the exterior world: “a safe place”. Everybody thinks that.
5- Out of Frame
The paintings are there to be observed, but in my city, they are painted to be watched, you can’t keep your eyes off them, and in a small mistake, the figures run and jump off the paintings escaping to reality. As soon as they get out, it is too difficult to convince them to go back.
6- The Break Time
He is the best student in the school; in fact he is the only student left, since a long time ago. For him this is an advantage, the teachers pay extremely close attention to him; you even could say that he has become the favorite to everybody. Just one problem: play kicking ball by his own has its inconveniences.
7- Shy People
The people in my city are too shy, and to be recognized on the street is a primary concern. Lots of them, in order to avoid uncomfortable situations, have erased their faces, transforming them into simple shapes. Even so, there are moments when somebody recognizes them, and when they call them, they run quickly to the darkness, staying there until they are sure that those that recognized them left.
Farewell
Thanks to the people from Grryo Community for let me explain the stories that happened in my city of Barcelona. I hope you get as much enjoyment in reading them as I have in writing them. As you can see, my farewells are the same as my stories: short.
You can find me on Instagram as @serpiaka, or on my Facebook page as Sol y Sombra.
7 Historias cortas y una despedida, por Sergi García Gavaldà
Hola, mi nombre es Sergi G. Gavaldà y vivo en Barcelona. Tras muchos años sin hacer fotos empecé a fotografiar las calles y la gente de mi ciudad. Siempre me ha interesado la fotografía callejera, y aunque mucha gente me sitúa en este estilo, no me siento un fotógrafo de calle. Me gusta pensar que con el tiempo he creado un mundo abstracto, sin lugar ni tiempo, y lo que mas me gusta es imaginar las historias que se esconden detrás de cada fotografía que hago.
Bienvenidos a mi mundo:
1.- El rey de los locos: Hace tiempo que nadie habita el castillo. Todos sus habitantes, excepto uno, el rey, lo abandonaron dejándolo a su suerte. Aún así, cada día a la misma hora, sale al balcón para dar un discurso a un pueblo que, cansado de oirle, decidió marchar de las tierras en busca de un castillo y un rey nuevo al que escuchar.
2.- El balcón: Hace tiempo que esta asomado a la ventana, ve a la gente pasar, él los saluda y los viandantes al mirar hacia arriba lo uníco que ven es una figura negra, irreconocible, por lo que hacen ver que no lo han visto y siguen su rumbo ignorando la voz que desde la ventana les llama.
3.- La Catedral: La catedral esta llena de ventanales. Allí, la gente solo puede hacer una cosa, deambular perdidos por sus largos pasillos esperando que la luz que entra por sus ventanas, sea capaz de hacerles recordar por que llevan tanto tiempo andando en un sitio al que ni siquiera ellos mismos, saben como llegaron.
4.- Codigo de Barras: A la hora del descanso, todos los oficinistas bajan al patio central para hacer un cigarro. Allí no hablan entre si, cada uno se coloca en un lugar estratégico en el que apartarse de los demás. Rodeados por las rejas que les separa del mundo exterior. ¨Un lugar seguro¨ piensan todos.
5.- Out of frames: Los cuadros estan para ser observados, pero en el caso de mi ciudad, estan hechos para ser vigilados, no se les puede quitar el ojo de encima, en un pequeño descuido, las figuras corren y saltan del cuadro escapando hacia la realidad. Una vez fuera, cuesta mucho convencerles para que vuelvan a meterse dentro.
6.- La hora del patio: Es el mejor estudiante de todo el colegio, mejor dicho, es el único estudiante que queda desde hace mucho tiempo. Para él todo son ventajas, los profesores le prestan toda su atención, e incluso se podría decir que se ha convertido en el preferido de todos ellos. Solo hay un problema, jugar al kiking ball solo, tiene sus inconvenientes.
7.- Gente tímida: La gente en mi ciudad es bastante tímida e ir por la calle y que se les reconozcan es una de sus principales preocupaciones. Muchos de ellos, con el fin de evitar situaciones indeseadas, han llegado a borrarse el rostro, convirtiendose en simples siluetas. Aún así, hay veces en las que alguien les reconoce, y al llamarles, corren rapido hacia la oscuridad de donde no salen hasta estar seguros de que quien les ha reconocido se ha ido.
Muchas gracias a la gente de Grryo Community por dejarme explicar las historias que suceden en mi ciudad. Espero hayais disfrutado leyendolas igual que yo explicandolas. Como veis, mis despedidas son igual que mis historias, cortas.
Me podeis encontrar en Instagram como @serpiaka, o en mi pagina de facebook Sol y sombra.
by Romina Mandrini | May 9, 2016 | Romina Mandrini, Stories, You Are Grryo
I discovered photography around four years ago…or perhaps it is photography that found me.
It all started with some very severe sleep deprivation. Some might even say I was delirious at the time. I’d recently had my fourth baby, and to say he didn’t like to sleep is an understatement. Not. A. Wink. It was sheer torture, day after day, month after month, and it seemed endless. But it was during this bleary-eyed haziness that I felt something explode inside of me. I remember it so clearly, almost tangibly (and believe me, I do not remember much from that time). Creativity started pouring out of me, like lava from a volcano. I began painting and making collages, almost manically. Silly little works to me, as I certainly did not perceive myself as an artist. Creating something – anything – gave the sleeplessness some worthy purpose.
The Parting
As a child I’d been very creative, enjoying reading, writing and painting. I longed to study fine art after high school, but my art teacher laughed at me and said I was more suited to studying psychology. I was mortified, deeply embarrassed. I’ll never forget the humiliation. How could I have got it so wrong? How could I have dared to imagine that I could be an artist? I decided to study literature at University (I took some psychology classes too – ha!). I went on to work as a children’s book editor, a job I loved. I thought I’d found my calling, helping others tell their stories, working behind the scenes.
In Hiding
The Burial
All along, though, there were stories that I needed to tell too. On a whim during this sleep-deprived-but-creative phase, I found myself buying a used DSLR – a Canon 30D. Looking back now, I don’t really know why I did this, but I can only guess it was another effort to save myself from the sinking ship I was on. I started researching like crazy, learning everything I could about photography. I enrolled in online courses, watched tutorial after tutorial till all hours of the night. I was utterly exhausted, but at the same time completely energised by this newfound obsession. Making images – expressing myself in a visual way – made me feel alive. It was like being reunited with a long-lost friend.
Stronger Than She Looks
Reunited
At first I was simply documenting our family life. I was happy just to be able to capture light, to produce an image that matched what I envisaged in my mind. But soon I began to get a niggling feeling that producing a “pretty picture” wasn’t quite enough. There had to be something more. I started reading about contemplative photography as a way of producing more meaningful images. This mindful approach really struck a chord with me and I began to put some of its techniques into practice.
Eye of the Heart
One day, about two years into my photography journey (and sleeping much better by now!), I made a startling discovery. I was browsing my Lightroom library, when it suddenly hit me. Images jumped out at me, like embers from a fire. I was shocked to see that what I was really photographing was not just my children – it was me. I could see my own childhood, my own pain, my own emotions in the images. I could see how my creativity had been buried beneath my insecurities and, dare I say it, shame. At first this revelation was somewhat disturbing. It was a bit like being given a new pair of glasses, looking in the mirror and suddenly seeing all the ugly imperfections that you never knew were there. I remember at one point thinking I might not be able to pick up a camera again – it was too painful to face myself in that way. I could hear that old storyline echoing in my mind – “you’re not cut out for this”. But despite myself, I started feeling incredible healing taking place.
Finally Seen
Since that moment, I’ve looked at photography in a completely different way. I’ve stopped striving to “take” good photos; rather I feel excited to see what images I will be given. My images have taken on a new meaning. They continue to tell me stories about myself, revealing secrets I didn’t even know I was keeping. Often it’s in the little in-between moments, in the photos I would otherwise reject as “mistakes”. Other times it’s in the gems. Furthermore, an image may reveal something to me today, and months later it may reveal something new. It’s almost as if each image has an endless number of stories in it.
Roots
Playing With Light
These days I photograph with a Canon 5D and an iPhone 6. Since joining Instagram a few months ago, I have been moved and inspired to find a whole community of people courageously sharing their stories with me. In the process, I have been encouraged to learn that others find meaning in my images too. This has been a most rewarding and humbling experience.
Escape from the Cage
Soar
Dorothea Lange once said, “A photographer’s files are, in a sense, his autobiography”, and I don’t think she was necessarily referring to documentary photography, which was her genre. I think there are stories being revealed in all photographers’ work. I encourage you to look more closely at yours. You never know what secrets you will find.
Quiet
You can see more of Romina’s work on Instagram and Flickr.
by Grryo Community | May 3, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
This fictional piece is Bill Draheim’s second guest article for Grryo. You can read the first one here.
Forgiveness
When I saw it was Boris walking the median—that big loping stride, the buzzed head with the white scar at the heel of his skull—I pulled over. The Interstate this far away from town isn’t much, just two long lanes with rapeseed fields at either side, so he would have been safe if I’d let him be, but who drives by an old friend?
He said he would be glad of a ride, and I figured he couldn’t do me any harm anymore, so in he got and then it was the two of us like in the old days.
Boris looked toe up, worse than a beaten dog. He seemed to get worse every time I saw him. Dirt spattered his clothes. Flecks of glinting grit on his shoes. I didn’t ask where he was going or where he’d come from—a man is entitled to his privacy, as far as I’m concerned—and there wasn’t much to say that hadn’t been said before, so we rode in silence. Words would have just trod on the glory outside anyhow. It was that time of day when everything goes quiet and the light falls soft and slanted on the land.
Boris leaned his head back, eyes half open. After he sat like that for some time, I figured he must have fallen asleep. Though I always remembered him as a snorer. And here he weren’t snoring at all, though he seemed peaceful enough, for Boris.
I hadn’t finished what I’d set out to do that morning, so when we came to the little Lutheran church at the edge of town, I rolled the car under the white Ash and there we sat as the last light crept across the fields until only the bell-tower was lit.
“I’m gonna stretch my legs,” I said, in case he was awake. He had a way of doing that: playing possum. Sure enough, he nodded.
But I didn’t get out, not yet. The bough overhead cast a finger of shadow on the hood of the car. I watched as it waved, as though it were saying goodbye.
Boris lolled his head, gave me that evil eye of his: “I’ll stay in the car if that’s alright with you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I might be a minute. Gotta check out the church.” When he didn’t say anything, I said: “I could use a hand.”
“Church got nothing to do with me, nor me with it.”
Well, that was a hell of a thing to say. Boris was infamous in those parts for a number of reasons, but I was no angel either. “Fine. Then watch the fucking road.”
He laughed, “You really gonna case it out? A church?” As if that was the worst thing someone could do. “Forget it. I got some thinking I need to do.”
“Thinking!” That tore it. “What the hell you talking about, Boris?”
“That’s why I was out walking in the first place.”
“Then why’d you jump in?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. Instead he rolled his big head front and center and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep, or thereabouts.
I slammed the door as I left.
The sun was dead and gone. It’s amazing how quick it goes down in the end, as if the horizon’s grease and the sun, an egg rolling off it.
I climbed the steps and checked the door. What were these Podunks thinking, leaving the church open on a Wednesday night? Maybe someone was inside, a lonely old biddy praying in a pew. Maybe the Pastor himself. I knew he sometimes stayed late, to tidy up his meager things. I hoped to hell he wasn’t here. That would be all I needed, running into him and having to explain myself, why I was hanging around.
A wind blew. The leaves of the Ash tree stirred. I turned at the sound. Through the rear window I could see the back of Boris’ head, nodding back and forth. Thinking.
I remembered the salt-colored granules he had on his boots. It was Muscovite. I tried to think where it could have come from, the flats by his old house maybe? If he had gone there, it could only be for one reason but there was nothing to see, not anymore. Her folks had buried her in another part of the county, far from where he’d laid her down. Boris himself had been left where he lay. No one would touch him.
What the hell, I thought, let’s take a look, but the church was silent and empty and as usual, there was nothing worth stealing. But I figured I’d come back next week. Probably the week after that, too, just in case.
When I returned to the car, Boris was already gone. He would be heading back to his old house right about now, thinking about what he’d done, fading with each step, like how light fades at the end of day.
Bill Draheim inconspicuously documents the world around him using unassuming acquired vessels. It’s not the tool it’s the artist…
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William Gosline is a fiction writer, blogger and occasional screenwriter. He is pursuing an MFA in writing from Pacific University. He lives and works in Honolulu, Hi.
Web Page | Facebook
by Susanne Maude | Apr 29, 2016 | Stories, StreetPhotography, You Are Grryo
I must have been around four or five when I sat on my parent’s bed next to my little brother. My father closed the curtains, set up the projector and showed us a Christmas time film he had made. It was about us, about me and my brother; we danced and laughed, we decorated the lowest branches of our Christmas tree with blue and red glass balls.
I remember how strange it felt looking at myself on the white bedroom wall. That was me for sure swirling on the floor without any shame. She had my ridiculous haircut and brown pantyhose. And yet, how could it be me, when I was there, sitting on the bed, carefully watching?
That is my relationship with photography. I am seeking the childhood magic.
We have an innate need to surround ourselves with stories. We use stories, written and visual ones, to make sense of life, to better understand each other and ourselves. We use stories to connect.
I‘ve always loved stories. I love listening to them, reading, and writing them, but I only started taking pictures after my first child was born. I shot to document, to remember the moments, how the light hit the green walls on our bedroom, how she smiled and waved her fingers towards the window when she woke up. The first steps, first everything. Those were the kind of pictures I wanted to have when I couldn’t sleep and was afraid I wouldn’t remember any of it.
Then we moved abroad, first to Poland, then to the States. I bought an iPhone. Little by little photography took over. The memory on my phone, constantly full. I wanted to document everything; the white walls, yellow school busses, the way everything felt like living in a collection of short stories. How new it all felt, exciting.
Soon documenting gave way to treasure hunting. I collected shadows, light, clouds, trees, houses, doors, people, streets, anything and everything. It was liberating, it felt like play. My best attempt at becoming Indiana Jones.
I’m still in that phase. I shoot everything that interests me, everything that resonates. I try to capture the red bird sitting next to my window, how the morning light falls on dead tulips at 6:27 AM when my girls are still sleeping, and I’m drinking coffee, writing.
I like street photography and I enjoy shooting portraits. I watch people and imagine what keeps them awake at 2:00 AM, what are they hiding, what songs they listen to when they feel alone. People have always interested me the most.
For me a frame is a separate moment in a story that has already begun. There’s a character, a protagonist, someone that I can relate to. There are forces that resist each other: light and darkness, uniqueness and mundane, stillness and motion. There is the feeling that something is about to happen, a twist is approaching.
A frame leaves me with questions and expectations. It creates suspense and makes me ask what if, what then, what next. But it does not provide answers. It leaves the story unresolved.
I’m drawn to frames that feel strange and mysterious, cinematic frames that feel more like Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and less CNN. I love that feeling I sometimes get when shooting, the feeling that there’s a secret I can’t immediately figure out, everything does not instantly make sense. Life does not always make sense.
What ultimately makes the scene is an emotion. Beautiful settings give me aesthetic pleasure, good frames evoke feelings. If I don’t feel anything while taking a picture, the picture won’t be good.
Emotions are personal, subjective. The feelings I have when shooting differ from the viewers’. We interpret the pictures based on the stories, fears and needs we carry within ourselves. When we look at art, we look at ourselves.
The magic of photography is it celebrates the uniqueness of a given moment. Witnessing a special moment lingering in front of me, being able to capture that, knowing that it will never exist again. Magic. It is finding shadows that make me feel small. It is a sudden eye contact in the middle of a street when waiting for the light to turn, hearing the seagulls close by. It is seeing small stories. The flag on the wall, people gathering beneath it, speaking Russian, the way the man shakes his head and watches his shoes underneath the table. It is studying expressions on his face, learning his secrets.
Photography demands I be present. Ever watching the smallest details inside one big frame.
A good frame feels like a poem, like looking at someone’s dreams.
The girl went to look for mermaids
She found green that felt heavy and tasted secrets
like a broken tea cup hidden in a closet with forget-me-nots crying for water and why
She stayed
I take pictures for the same reason I write. I do it to experience how it would feel to be someone else, to understand. To better live this life as me. To be more like a child again.
You can find me on Instagram as @masusanne.
by Grryo Community | Apr 26, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
My name is John Crawford, I live in New Zealand and am honoured to be invited to share my work with the Grryo community.
I would like to start my story back in the early 1980’s in the film days when everything seemed so simple, uncomplicated and straight forward. I began a personal project called ‘Aerial Nudes’. As a commercial photographer I spent hours flying from shoot to shoot in Helicopters. The vibrations and incredible rotor noise would send me into a trance like state of semi consciousness where I was able to block out all sounds, and look through the perspex floor and have a perfect birds eye view. Looking down without the distraction of horizon lines all shapes and patterns in the landscape became linear – clean and strikingly abstract with little sense of scale, and the thought came to me : plop a strategically placed nude within any of these graphic terrains, and bingo – there was the reference point for scale (a reference that also emphasised the point that we infinitesimal human beings so often totally screw our environment without regard for consequences) In those moments my Aerial Nude project was born. Between 1981 and 1986 I completed a series of 18 images. All were shot on 35mm colour negative, from a helicopter from about 1000 feet. Each image was meticulously planned and propped before jumping in the chopper. No post cropping or photoshop was used. I didn’t own a computer, everything was created in camera.
Now on to the present time and my beautiful obsession with smartphone photography which kicked off with the first iPhone in 2007. At present all of my personal work is created on the iPhone. Late last year I completed two large budget commissioned corporate projects on my iPhone 6s. Everything is easy again. Using a variety of cleverly designed in phone apps (particularly Hipstamatic and Snapseed) I can create a better range of different but still believable effects than I can in photoshop on my mac. On average I shoot twenty thousand images a year on my phone. I always shoot square, which is refreshing after years of composing in a rectangle, and brings different compositional dynamics into play. Shooting in this format has reignited my passion for shooting images, it’s difficult to not be inspired or be creative and challenged. There’s a beautiful visual feast in front of our eyes 24/7 if we disregard the noise and nonsense and clutter of life around us. Street photography has been reinvented. Approaching people on the streets, whether they be homeless, pretty, weird or whatever, is much simpler when all that is between your eye and the subject is a 7.1mm thick piece of reasonably unobtrusive high technology rather than an expensive looking SLR and an array of more expensive looking lenses in an expensive branded camera bag. I dress down when shooting on the streets. My strike rate is about 95%, and it’s exciting and rewarding taking time out to roam looking for interesting characters to shoot, either on the spot or ask them to shift to somewhere close by with a cleaner or more dynamic background. It’s a wonderful way of seemingly wasting time and nurturing the soul.
Social media today has made it easy accessing a wealth of outstanding images that are being created daily around the world, Instagram in particular, used by 75 million people each day! I’m a self confessed IG addict, posting my favourite image most days and following 300 like minded photographers, many of whom are absolutely inspirational. It’s like a close knit family of creative souls sharing personal visions. I personally photograph pretty much anything that moves; people, animals, and landscape. I subconsciously look for symmetry of composition when I shoot.
Check out my other works on Instagram (@jonniecraw) and the web (www.johncrawford.co.nz)
Here is a selection of my recent iPhone images, each with a small story. (click the photo to see full size)
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Selfies are a strange concept, hanging over the edge of my kitchen table upside down with iPhone gaff taped to shoe box with 30 second timer on.
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The little bird was tiny and timid but seemed to trust me. Passers by seemed it strange that I lay on the road talking to a sparrow. Stranger things have happened.
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The house was old and decayed and Oscar saw his half brother in the bathroom mirror.
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As a young pup Zooey quickly found what it was like to be a dog when Ricky went for a surf.
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Dogs always look bigger from pavement level.
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She had beautiful long lily white legs.
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Sometimes you find a spot and wait for someone to walk by. Often it doesn’t happen.
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Ruben loves ink and is passionate about the art of tattooing. I ran into him next to the pub. Quietly spoken and modest he had no problem letting me photograph him a month later.
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Josh was proud of his tattoos but not too keen on being photographed at the supermarket where I saw him by the checkout. His girl friend though talked him into it saying ‘isn’t he just beautiful’.
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57 year old Samual doesn’t suffer fools lightly, he’s spent a few years in the can for gang related trouble but all good now. Under the facade of early Black Power tattoos which cover most of his body and face is an academic side, he is a bachelor of Maori studies with honors. I met him in down town Auckland.
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Dion loves horses, all his family from Te Kaha were bought up riding bareback … to school, to the beach, and later in life to the pub.
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the badge tells the story
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Garth is 101 years old and his wife Nan 95. They’ve been married 74 years, have three daughters, 25 great grand children, and still live in their own house. Nen (bless her) drives the car almost every day, and each evening they sit together and drink a straight gin with just a touch of water. They are a beautiful couple, both remarkably sprightly and on to it.
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Bruce loves fishing and takes it very seriously
by Grryo Community | Apr 21, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
Instagram can be a curious thing. I’ve found it can be alienating as much as it can connect, harsh and unwelcoming as much as warm and embracing. I’m still not very adept with it, still cannot get my head around it and I always feel I’m a latecomer – it took me a year just to realise what hashtags were used for, another 6 months to somewhat grasp communities of Instagram, and yet another few months to register that if somebody who is not on your contact list sends you a private message, the little orange icon will not show up. (I have never changed the settings either). Well, incidentally I pressed the inbox icon for no reason and I’m glad I did – there was a message from someone. He called himself Jazz Devil. “Hello my name’s Barry I’m a music guy and I wear hats” he said “I like your work – would you shoot me in your street/portrait style”?
Well I have to say his name rang a bell – it really did – I just could not put my finger on where I heard about him – but hey ho – hail almighty Google and Wikipedia. I must admit, since my days now mostly consist of changing nappies, wiping noses, school runs, photographing my kids (and an occasional creative selfie) – I was rather excited – not everyday you get to meet a celebrity (although I prefer the word artist) of such calibre. Let me briefly tell you who Barry Adamson is – a prominent English musician – active in the music and movie industry since 1977 – working with artists like Buzzcocks, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, just to name but a few. Contributing to many soundtracks, among which are The Lost Highway, Natural Born Killers and The Beach.
And so we met – in a coffee shop in Brick Lane – him looking cool and dapper and me with my old camera and admittedly quite shaky hands, after all – the guy has closely worked with David Lynch – who is my all time favourite movie director.
I would love to say that we spent the whole day shooting, trying different locations, moods etc, but the whole thing merely took maybe less than an hour: after exchanging some niceties, a half drunk cup of decaf coffee (I was shaky enough without a boost of caffeine) and discovering mutual love/hate for some photographers – I just started shooting him – he laughed and said: oh you’re quick… straight to work, let me put my sunglasses on – he wouldn’t be photographed without them – his trademark.
It was a very dull and overcast day, and being inside a dark cafe did not help either, since there was no flash involved. In my frenzy, and on autopilot, I suddenly had a sort of tiny Eureka moment – I jumped outside in mid sentence uttering “stay here!” oh, rather rude I know – I really really have bad people skills (leaving Mr. Adamson rather perplexed) and started shooting him from the outside in window reflections. He realised what was going on and started posing. Good. He was a lovely man and a fine gentleman -if he thought I was a tiny bit weird and scatty, he absolutely didn’t show it.
You know how it goes, we’ve all been there – you take a hundred photos and you come home and you realise that only maybe 3 (if you’re lucky) out of a hundred are any good. Luckily Mr. Adamson was pleased with a handful of shots, of which a few of them were “killer” in his own words. Ah, such a relief I tell you! What a lovely albeit short experience, these things do boost your confidence in many ways.
So there – that was that – and now – back to the nappy changing duties. Thank you for reading…
Instagram | Facebook
All images © Jonė Reed
by Grryo Community | Apr 14, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
Photos by Nicolas Petit / Words by Gabriella Zanzanaini
There are old men with birdcages and women in pleather trousers with poodles; children asleep over their homework on a temporary table set up streetside as a night tram trundles by, the neighbourhoods still alive with the breath of the night.
There is chaos to Hong Kong’s order and harmony in the clutter that fills its pavements, the steaming baskets of food, the heavy rolls of animal print fabric rushing by on a trolley, the pile of green vegetables on sale for ten dollars a kilo. The trolleys race around throughout the day, pushed by strong young men, fragile old women, sat on by children. A city that is constantly in movement, from its secluded South China Sea bays, to its dense cigarette chimney buildings. Its people negotiating their way through thick traffic and empty alleyways, through busy restaurants and quiet home cooking, through horse races and Louis Vuitton shops. There is time to lie down and look into the eyes of a lover, to lie down by the pool and soak in the sun, to flip around on a skateboard, to smoke an old bamboo pipe. When it is quiet, the light in the temple shines through for the meditative soul, or the sun lights up a makeshift bench just in time for the music listener dozing off under his hat.
A game of Chinese chess or Mark Six lottery, this city’s people are ready to gamble, to gamble away the chance that nowhere is better than here.
There is a name for those who have chosen this place as home. The Hong Kongers.
My name is Nicolas Petit and I am a freelance photographer currently based in Hong Kong. The above text was written by Gabriella Zanzanaini.
The HongKongers Project aims to go beyond Hong Kong’s skyline and tell a contemporary tale of the city through its people. All photos here were shot between October 2015 and March 2016.
Find Nicolas on :
Instagram | Facebook | Website
by Valeria Cammareri | Apr 8, 2016 | Stories, Valeria C, You Are Grryo
This interview was conducted by Valeria Cammareri @_soulkitchen_ and Marina Torchiana @gatta_randagia
(more…)
by Giulia Macario | Apr 6, 2016 | Community, Featured Articles, Giulia Macario, Stories, You Are Grryo
Grryo believes that abstract artists deserve to be recognised. Every Sunday join us in celebrating creative photography and art, from collage, design, multi layered textural compositions, to minimal colour pieces. We want to see diversity and images that cross and merge the boundaries of our imaginations.
We hope to support the abstract arts community by having a place for artists to share imagery that goes beyond the everyday snapshot and pixel and is transformed into a digital artwork that makes you feel something. Abstract art needs to be seen and experienced. We look forward to you and your expressive art and we want to spread the word about your Abstract talents. Thank you for your contribution to the mobile photography/arts community. Please join us by tagging your unique abstract images to #wearegrryo or #grryo.
We hope to see you there!
We invite you to take a look at these artist selections from February and March and experience their extraordinary galleries for yourselves.
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Erin McGean
Ground control to major tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmets on. Strap yourselves in and sprinkle yourselves with star dust every Sunday for Abstract Art features from all around the IG galaxy. First up in the digital stratosphere is the exceptionally talented graphical goddess and all round gorgeous being Erin @lifewithart who masterfully experiments with collage and editing elements to create wonderfully surreal images like this one – Iconoclast. Truly in a class of her own.
instagram | website
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Kim Meinelt
One of the things I love about Sundays is uncovering new artists that inspire, move or simply take my breath away. Looking through your images for this weeks grryo abstract feature i uncovered a dreamy, layered, gem of an artist whose work both transcends time and evokes a sense of mystery that leaves you wanting more and more.
Ethereal, dreamlike, poetry only begins to paint the artistry of the exquisite images of Kim @kimmibird where you can lose yourself in the layers of textures both hidden and revealed. Tattered and torn fragments and portals to a completely different reality, I highly recommend you visit.
yes, i’m Looking at You.
instagram | website
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Gary Edward Blum
If, like me, you adore subtle works on found paper, experiments with mixed media, expressive mark-making, and dabs of colour, then this dynamic combination of fields between painting and photography is just the sunday abstract discovery for you.
Gary Edward Blum @garyedwardblum is a deft hand with delicate lines, textures, and juxtapositions, and has a keen eye for still life which speaks my kind of visual language. There is nothing ‘incidental’ about his artwork, everything is carefully considered and thoughtfully placed. “Utilizing a mixture of realism and minimalist abstraction, I create a narrative between pictorial reality, artistic process and formal composition.” This converging contrast in his body of work highlights not only his remarkable vision of the world but teeters on the edge between real and perceived reality and abstraction, dotted with smears of colour along the way…
∞
₀ ₂ ₀ ₅ ₁ ₆
instagram | website
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Shuko Kawase
Its that time of the week again – Abstract Sunday, as the day draws to a close here in Australia. This time round we venture to Japan where @studioshuko caught my gaze with her hazy abstract umbrella in my favourite colour – red. Shuko Kawase’s delicate sensibilities and art leave a dusty and delightful impression on the senses. A dissolving rain of colour and an abstract silhouette bleeding at the edges as if seen through a foggy window or snow storm is just enough detail for our mind to fill in the gaps and form a picture in our minds of the mood and moment captured here in Hokkaido’s Moerenuma Park. Thank you so much for sharing your beautiful memory of the day – Portrait of a lady.
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Bonny Breddels
App-stacking, there’s a term you dont hear much of these days… well guess what, i’m bringing it back with this beauty. And yes, i’ve checked, its still Sunday in the Netherlands where this weeks’ artist is from… When I asked Bonny about how she creates her images I was amazed how many levels of work went in to transform this ‘manny’ into an almost unrecognible but absolutely Abstract Sunday marvel. In case you were wondering – that’s a mannequin, for the uninitiated, and I love mannequins! Also, are you into textures, scratches, layers of type, creating a multifaceted, multilayered artwork? More is more with miss @beezzz_ and I couldnt help but notice how it adds depth to her dark, inkylicious, moody and mysterious images. For a unique beez eye look at the weird but oh so wonderful world of bonny, buzz on in to to her feed.
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Tim Matregrano
I hopped aboard the yellow submarine again with our latest artist, Tim Matregrano @ruxco_tim for this Sundays escapism treat. It’s been a bright, sunnylicious day here and i’m extremely excited to introduce you to the wonderful waves of moon beamy goodness that radiate from this space age digital collage artwork. But… rather than subject you to my nonsensical ramblings I’d rather you heard it from the man himself. You see, i’m a curious sort and asked the question, “Where does your inspiration come from?” His answer, like his creativity – was rather impressive, so i’ll share it with you now… “I enjoy seeking nuance from composition, shapes, color, texture, and finding the harmony and balance of these. I’ve found that I’m able to create these ‘strange’ scenes, or worlds, with mobile editing that I wasn’t able to achieve with my tactile art. Each piece is an experiment, a push to create the idea I have…” Oh and those tactile things? I wanna hear more about those – it sounds kinda fancy. Drawings, collages, sculptures too? Multitalented – yes. Do we dig it? Oh Yes.
No.230d
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Jeanette Vazquez
Don’t be fooled by the apparent simplicity of her photographs. There is something innately intuitive that I was drawn to with this artists’ work among the thousands of images tagged to the grryo gallery.
How she sees and more importantly how she feels what she photographs is really compelling. Her work is a mixture of abstract reflections and segments of street photography handled with a sensitivity and dusty use of colour that feels like its from a time gone by… Layer by layer she peels back the underlying essence of New York, as she sees it, a fleeting glance, a pair of heels walking out of frame, a window … A frame that is constantly moving and shifting, such an alluring picture of how she breathes in and paints the colours of the city through her eyes.
Thank you Jeanette Vazquez @_jeanettevazquez for revealing your fascinating fragments of art with us this Abstract Sunday. Please wander down the dusky pavements in her footsteps and take a peek into her beautiful world of photography.
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Andrew J Hays
What’s in a name? This week for our Sunday burst of Abstractness, a tidy little square package of pop sung out to my graphic heart in the mix of #wearegrryo. How could i go past this bright geometric image by Andrew Hays @andrewjhays . Who doesn’t need a few little splices of multicolour in their life, right?! I’m not always just about black and white you know, and what a mood lifting antidote with this selection. An Amalgamation of cool, cropped, compositionally, correct, crazy, colour treats with mind spinning minimalism. Linear pieces and slices of shadows on this delicious candy coloured wall. This refreshing blend of shapes and colours makes a lively geometric flavour combination for my Sunday Abstracts pick.
And yes getting back to Amalgamation, what a brilliant word and title.
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Agnès Lanteri
Immerse yourself in the creative work of the extraordinary artist Agnès Lanteri @ellla_k . She is an exquisite painter of light who has envisioned this brilliantly hued blue abstract piece called Passengers in Transit. This monochromatic mist series 3/6 is a beautiful balm for eyes that see beyond the routine of everyday life and recognise it a true piece of art.
Agnès handles colour and light like they were old friends, each going hand in hand, it doesn’t matter the subject, even a simple piece of fabric or a stranger on the move can be illuminated in her eyes.
This is a remarkable gift.
I for one want to take a meandering journey with this artist and escape into the dreamy quiet of her imaginative space, who’s with me?
instagram
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Heather McAlister
Graceful, captivating, and full of emotion, this exquisite celestial being Heather McAlister @poppybay takes my Abstract Sunday heart this week with an ethereal self portrait. From behind her gauzy veil her porcelain skin is illuminated against the murky shadows by a most radiant light.
I’m fascinated by art which strips back the layers and reveals something true and real about the artist themselves. Heather does that with elegance and a glowing bouquet of luminous colour cascading down her canvas.
An entrancing hum of divine, glorious, light and dark woven together with her gossamer thread.
It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal. E.M. Forster
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by Grryo Community | Apr 1, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
I mostly photograph in a big slum, the largest Muslim slum, in Calcutta. Narrow alleys, no wider than the width of one person, separate little houses.
There are no doors to these houses, only curtains. The alleyways are dark, even at night, only a light shining through a half open window might show the way. I stand in dark corners and photograph women at the counter of stores, or the visible legs of a man, sitting by the entryway of his home, behind half parted curtain.
I photograph lit windows, or passageways through which you see a broken chair, a wooden cot–parts of a home. These images contain all the possible stories I’d never know and lives I’d never live.
I am, by nature, shy. I don’t generally start conversations with strangers; a ‘people-person’ is not quite the accurate description for me. The camera is my buffer against the real world. It allows me to, in a sense, permeate through that curtain—that flimsy cloth of privacy— without really being noticed.
When I traded in the iPhone for a real camera, however, it was hard to go unnoticed. I was visiting the slum almost daily. My rolled up jeans and careless coiffure made me inevitably stand out from the sari and salwar clad women of the area. Soon the little children were pestering me to take their pictures. Women would push each other in front of my camera. Take a picture of her. Take a picture of her. Sometimes I would acquiesce.
Will you come to my house? A woman asked.
I was standing by a tea stall sipping chai. Mapping out my walk for the day. She pointed towards an alley beside a large construction site. A small shack, made of canvas and plastic stood at its corner, separated from the construction site by six feet of bamboo fence.
Will you come and take photographs of my house? You see, I have lived there for twenty five years but they are making me move.
She led the way and I followed.
The only furniture in the house was a large bed, a wall cabinet mounted on top of it and an iron cupboard in one corner. Clothes, enviably folded, were stacked neatly in a corner. Steel crockery shone from the cabinet. I took several pictures and in a few days, I returned to give her the prints.Then came more photo requests from others near by, more prints and more visits- a still ongoing cycle.
Invariably I’d be invited into someone’s home for tea, or to photograph a family gathered on the bed. These were strangers’ homes, homes of people with whom I’d have no connection with were it not for the camera. As someone who writes fiction, I had previously no intention of being a documenter of lives. Yet here I was, now the chronicler of the people of Park Circus Basti.
They were almost identical, these homes. Single rooms, no larger than a 100 sq. ft, where a family of four or more lived. On one end was always a big double bed. Sometimes, an old grandfather would be reading on it, sometimes, a young child sleeping, a scarf covering her face from the light. Those awake, sat on the floor watching television—mounted on the wall. A young girl might have been studying for her school. Every detail of their lives completely visible to me.
The camera, my wall against the world opened up a new form of intimacy between the slum dwellers and myself.
Portraits in themselves are an intimate form of photography, one I can’t say I’m very adept at. The very act of being photographed says—here is a record of me. And by recording it, a private moment has been exposed.
Portraits, by nature, unlike street photography, which is what I prefer to do, require a closeness between the photographer and the subject. A physical closeness, because you have to get closer to the subject…
…and the other kind of closeness- intimacy. A photographer sees his subject with a certain eye and he tries to capture a moment which speaks to him of what he sees. There is a connection, an interaction between the two— an intimacy that is recorded in the picture. and then exposed to the public.
A portrait is a dichotomy of the intimate inner and exposed outer. What is visible: the way one holds a cigarette, or slouches their chin when they are asleep and what can only be imagined: who was that woman peering out from the saris, hanging up to dry? She looks so enchanting. I must capture that. And that ‘that’ is what the photographer tries to create an intimacy with his subject for, to replicate in image.
As I wander through the traffic-less alleys, I cannot but help but think that no middle class or upper class home in the city would do such a thing—invite a stranger in, expose every little detail of what goes on behind closed doors.
I’m accustomed to an aunt visiting unannounced, or sweets sent across from a family friend. In India, we always keep doors open, in that sense. But there are always barriers: guests sit in the living room; if someone is sleeping, the bedroom door is always shut. As far as class is concerned, the barriers are even more rigid: a worker always stands outside the room; the gardener is never allowed to enter the house. But the people of Park Circus Basti keep their doors unabashedly open.
Contact:
Instagram: @bukusarkar
Web: www.bukusarkar.com
by Grryo Community | Mar 28, 2016 | Stories, You Are Grryo
Postal is a project about short messages, or fragments (from the Latin word fragmentum, meaning “an isolated or incomplete part of something”). What is that something? In this case, it is our own daily realities. The daily realities of three different people. Each of us in a different part of the world, sending to one another our own pieces of a puzzle we share, which becomes real as the very process is taking place.
In each instance, a different private moment, selected or highlighted at random, becomes a new piece of that puzzle: a vanishing point of a singular reality, its fate to become part of a bigger picture. Part of a three-headed creature that will, at least for a while, inhabit a single body.
The old habit of sending postcards seems very apposite to our purpose; that gesture of travellers, beautiful in its simplicity, of sending something simply to say, “I’m thinking of you now”. Far from a long letter all about oneself “à la Sévigné”, it is precisely this mere glimpse, this awareness that something is incomplete, which allows us to experience a sense of process. Because this game we are playing creates its own meaning only at the time, and at the rhythm, in which it is being played out. Each postcard on its own is simply a decontextualized image of a mute hieroglyphic.
Derrida said that what he liked most about postcards was the fact that they were made to circulate like an open but illegible letter. We agree.
“ While you occupy yourself with turning it around in every direction, it is the picture that turns you around like a letter, in advance it deciphers you, it preoccupies space, it procures your words and gestures, all the bodies that you believe you invent in order to determine its outline. You find yourself, you, yourself, on its path.“
Jacques Derrida. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond
Perhaps what attracted us to this project was nothing more than an excuse to wander through the streets we are in, be they in Rome, Paris or London, whether it is somewhere close to where we live, or somewhere we may happen to be at any given moment. It is about an exchange of ideas and feelings within a context that is all to do with a plurality of expression, which is open to diversity, without rules or regulations. It is, quite simply, an exploration of individual urban spaces – female spaces – from different cities.
In this journey, nothing is planned, nothing expected. There is no preparation, no schedule. There is a beginning, but there is no end.
Gemma Antón @g_e_mm_a
Orietta Gelardin Spinola @orietta.gs
Ione Saizar @ionecell
P.S
It’s difficult to say where everything started… Either way it is not so important. The key element may be the desire to communicate to each other. We do think in each other and each postcard is a unique proof of it. In whatever way we share it.
It is a creative action on a primary stage at the moment. We want to humor ourselves while enjoying the “process”. Like a jam ballet. It’s a gesture, a glimpse. It’s an artistic offering we do to each other. No questions are asked.
What will it be when it grows up? We don’t know, and we don’t need to know. We just love to see it growing up freely. It will talk when it’s ready.
Click below to view images full size
Gemma Antón Serna
Born in Valencia is currently Living in Paris.
She combines her work in architecture with photography and collage.
Has participated in some collective shows. Her work appears in some printed and online publications as #4 eyesightZine
At the moment she is collaborating in some artistic Projects as h4rt “the hothouse for rough translations” while she continues working solo.
http://cargocollective.com/gemmaantonphotography
http://cargocollective.com/gemmaanton
http://www.hothouseforroughtranslations.org
Orietta Gelardin Spinola
Is a Graphic Designer born in Madrid (Spain) from an American father and an Italian mother, currently living between Madrid and Rome (Italy).
After having studied a Bachelor of Arts in graphic design between London and New York City, she settled in Madrid to pursue her professional career.
She has participated in various group shows.
One of her photos has been included in the ‘Out of the Phone’ mobile photography book.
Her work has been featured in magazines such as The Guardian, La Repubblica, Huffington Post Italia, L’Oeil de la Photographie, Indie Rocks…
At the moment she works in her graphic design studio (Alcorta & Gelardin).
https://www.instagram.com/orietta.gs/
https://www.lensculture.com/orietta-gelardin-spinola
http://oriettags.tumblr.com
Ione Saizar
Was born in San Sebastian, Spain. She earned her BA in Photography at the London College of Printing and she completed her Master in Image and Communication at the Goldsmiths College, London. Actually she lives and work as a freelance photographer in London
www.ionesaizar.com
