tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87719722452673504042024-03-05T19:00:52.123-08:00Sean Thomas PhotographySean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-41714865429110694112011-05-17T09:34:00.001-07:002011-05-17T10:20:12.169-07:00Connections<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><i>Connections</i></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">We see the homeless on the street everyday. Though the average American is only about one to three paychecks away from being in their shoes, we seem to choose to ignore them. We look the other way when we pass them on the street. Sometimes there is the person who will hand a couple of bucks to a guy sitting on the corner with a "Will Work For Food" sign, but thats as far as they go. We never take the chance to KNOW them, to hear their story. We don't find a way to connect or relate to them. As a result, we often just don't see them as ONE of us. Not just not part of society, but almost not a part of Humanity. The goal of my series is to HUMANIZE those we choose not to see. Through intimate portraits and telling of their stories, I hope to connect the viewer to these people and make them real in our eyes. When you look someone in the face and hear their story, you can't pretend they aren't there anymore.</p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">Through this I have experienced many things. I have cried. I have laughed. I have been embarrassed by myself and society. I have found wisdom from unexpected people. I have been shocked. I have felt despair. I have felt hope.</p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">But most off all I have looked into the eyes of those that used to be strangers and made a connection. And through it, I have been changed forever....</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b><i>BE SURE TO CLICK ON EACH IMAGE TO ENLARGE FOR BETTER VIEW</i></b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOawaQ4TaVq-M_REb_C7c_iK99f78laX-Wf1rG0v_IgZbldiGyHnQioejh1OZOoaZfqzWr6mFtgZYpcsbztGjVIPny5VkNxpkQzLf49G1wR1LJbyhxM5yK13Se4OnONmt-dMSA3kQFsM/s1600/12_1_1_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOawaQ4TaVq-M_REb_C7c_iK99f78laX-Wf1rG0v_IgZbldiGyHnQioejh1OZOoaZfqzWr6mFtgZYpcsbztGjVIPny5VkNxpkQzLf49G1wR1LJbyhxM5yK13Se4OnONmt-dMSA3kQFsM/s400/12_1_1_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607725602860803810" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size:11px;"></span></i></b></p><b><i><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">PAUL, AGE 54</span></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I listened to Paul, and thought about how if my son had been born the same time as Paul he could have had the same kind of fate as Paul. My son, just like Paul, has Tourettes Syndrome. Tourrettes is a neurological disorder that causes the individual to have TICS. These are vocal sounds or words and arm, hand and head movements. It is totally uncontrollable by the individual, but completely cosmetic. Meaning, they don't effect the persons mental ability. In truth, most with Tourrettes have Way above average intelligence. I quickly find that this is something Paul has in common with my son. As I listen to him talk about the inner working of the brain and Dopamine production, firing of synapses and various things like that...I realize this man is brilliant. I watch his eyes, so intelligent, as he tells me his story. Unfortunately for Paul, he was born at the wrong time. At 10 years old, with his tourettes tics and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, friends and family thought he had major mental issues. They didn't know what to do with him. He endured much teasing, but he got pas that. But in his twenties he found it impossible to keep a job. Wherever he worked people just didn't understand. Co-workers and customers alike would complain about the "Mentally Disturbed" employee until he would be fired. His doctor's answer was to overly medicate him with anti-psychotics, to eliminate the tics...but turning him into a vegetable. Eventually, by the age of 25, the state considered him unable to "work" and put him on state disability. After that, he lived on and off the streets, unable to really get by. I sat and chatted Paul for a couple of hours. He was bright and funny, but also had a huge sadness that weighed over him. I think the down size of his brightness is the fact that he is so acutely aware of how his life could have been different, and he has a bitterness about it. I walk away thinking how my son will have such a different life...</span></span></p></i></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;color:#332222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></span></span></p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQdXF3HVAEdGqyMkqw8g21TTM4wyOIly5KbTo4PXFp5cAfdtox8g1qXrj3QwrS6eOnTLLhVULpn2Fgsy6HuPzKqqjd2IHEMUcN4eNJck1Rg9my76NyH6bdtebnYLcYNdkaMJw0E7ZMds/s1600/12_1_2_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQdXF3HVAEdGqyMkqw8g21TTM4wyOIly5KbTo4PXFp5cAfdtox8g1qXrj3QwrS6eOnTLLhVULpn2Fgsy6HuPzKqqjd2IHEMUcN4eNJck1Rg9my76NyH6bdtebnYLcYNdkaMJw0E7ZMds/s400/12_1_2_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607725437294093586" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>PRESTON, AGE 59</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">It was a Beautiful warm day, and I spent over an hour sitting with Preston and his two dogs under a tree in the park. I have to say, Preston is one of the most amazing people I have ever met. Not because of where he came from and how he got to where he is today, but because of WHO he is today. His story is actually pretty simple...he was a Roughneck from the age twenty on. He worked oil rigs around the country. Very hard and VERY dangerous work. Over the 30 years he worked oil rigs he watched friends hurt or even killed on the job. Though experienced and a very hard worker, when he hit the age of fifty he found he just couldn't get hired anymore. There were too many twenty year olds out there who were stronger, fitter, more endurance and with less experience, Cheaper. So after 30 years away from home, he came back to Sacramento to live with his sister in a house that belonged to his parents. After a lot of family drama, Preston said Screw It, I'll be happier living in the park. And that's what he did. Preston is unlike a lot of the homeless I've met. He had a very Zen Buddhist way about him. He talked (very clearly and articulately) about how happy he was. People are wasteful, he tells me. They WANT too much, and are seldom happy. "You find happiness within, not from things" he tells me, as he puts a bookmark in his book and sets it down. I said it must be tough, though...not knowing when you will eat, and when you will be hungry. He looked at me and smiled and told me there is an ABUNDANCE of things on the street. People are wasteful, he tells me. They buy too much, then throw it away. He say anyone who lives on the street and says they are starving is either lying or lazy. He finds food everywhere, people throw away tons of food, still in packages. BUT...I say...when the police arrest you for sleeping in the park, don't they throw away all your stuff? Your sleeping bag, and blankets and stuff (and BOOKS)? Doesn't it take you a long time to gather that all back up. He smiled again, and gently shook his head. Sean, you aren't listening to me. Their is an ABUNDANCE of thing out there. It takes me a day to find new blankets and sleeping backs. A day to find new books to read. And if I don't find something that day, I'm just not meant to have it. Wow. I start to see preston differently. Like this amazing buddhist monk, sitting atop a mountain. He is so happy, by choice. He spends most his day reading books. He says he reads about a book every 2 to 3 days. I sat there against the tree, one of Preston's dogs laying its head in my lap...listening to this gentle poet speak. I am moved by him, and in no hurry to depart his company. Finally I stand, and he gives me strong hug...finally we break and he holds my shoulders at arms length. "Life is an ABUNDANCE, Sean. Remember that, and you will find Happiness everywhere, and in everything." I spend the rest of my day on a complete high, amazed by life itself.</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9e7mh5crtW5YQd6DcA_zEuzrL94YAmk8rqSjB125c95MMt0939cnvyO-UzoPiBy-8shtQ5Gf-_Dxn0uPK1VasXP7gZXi6oWtOHKuPRSBcvQMSl57krNHmc8oRjH7b0AKVgL213ifdaM/s1600/13_1_1_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9e7mh5crtW5YQd6DcA_zEuzrL94YAmk8rqSjB125c95MMt0939cnvyO-UzoPiBy-8shtQ5Gf-_Dxn0uPK1VasXP7gZXi6oWtOHKuPRSBcvQMSl57krNHmc8oRjH7b0AKVgL213ifdaM/s400/13_1_1_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607725293364360210" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>ALVIN, AGE UNKNOWN</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">"I'm a Drunk, Sean" </p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">Alvin tells me this in one of his moments of clarity. I've tried to figure out how old he his...so far my only clue being that he joined the Army somewhere around the fifties (said he did a little time in Korea during t<span class="text_exposed_show">he war) He only spent a few years in the Army before finally being kicked out for Drunk and Disorderly Conduct. He has spent his life fighting a losing battle with alcoholism. What strikes me is his frankness. He doesn't attempt excuses. He doesn't blame anyone but himself. He is very direct with me that he has spent his life a drunk. He has checked himself into many clinics over his life, trying to clean up..but always ends up the same. During our long talk, we discuss that I was in the Marine Corps. He looks at me and asks if I fought in Korea. I chuckled at first, telling him that was sixty years ago..then he looks me dead in the eye and said..right..Vietnam. I stop short when I realize how serious he is. The years of drinking have so affected him. I put my hand on his shoulder, and asked Alvin if he knew what year it was. He looked confused for a second, then shook his head. 78? 64? 72? He responds... I gave Alvin a hug, and five dollars for lunch, and walked away. I felt sad when I looked back at him...watching him shake his head, confused, trying to make sense of our conversation.</span></p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy64UTvU8pGsFl2F3ETY3DR8GOlgNSqlnYn5f4CBWZ4zNfu5Ay9bFKNvqkJxrom554nzcl-st47sZUsFQpexniOzaVYewfOQXtg3jB7jtZLsFvfFPiz3lHILLjh7sjWqKqYV-LZ9uu2I/s1600/14_1_4_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy64UTvU8pGsFl2F3ETY3DR8GOlgNSqlnYn5f4CBWZ4zNfu5Ay9bFKNvqkJxrom554nzcl-st47sZUsFQpexniOzaVYewfOQXtg3jB7jtZLsFvfFPiz3lHILLjh7sjWqKqYV-LZ9uu2I/s400/14_1_4_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607725158557612514" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>TAZ, AGE 59</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">Taz comes across as a very kind and gentle man. He smiles a lot, and laughs easily. He is actually married to "Mama", a lady who lives on the street and I've interviewed before. What is very interesting is when you talk to someone...and get them to open up, asking questions that lead deeper and deeper, you sometimes are shocked at what you find. What I knew about Taz before I ever met him, was that along with "Mama", he takes care of many young people who live on the street. He looks out for them, making sure they get food and have somewhere to sleep. He is kind and protective. I ask about how long he has lived on the street. Since he was 25. Wow, I say...24 years on the street..thats a long time. I ask how did he come to live on the street at 24, and he said he never found a place after he got out of prison. Hmm....I think..there is more to this. Prison? What did you go in for? For the first time his smile is gone, and he looks at the ground. He says something I can't hear...then says again, Murder. I'm taken back for a moment, shocked. He looks up at me, and smiles...but there is NO smile in his eyes, which are sad. He tells me his story: "My parents were bikers, as were all their friends. I was sixteen one night when I came home to find my Mother being raped by one of my dad's friends. He was a huge, fat, nasty thing..like 400 lbs or something. He didn't hear or see me. I stood there for a couple of minutes, then went to my parents room. I grabbed my dad's .45 from his drawer (he had a bunch of guns around the house, and they were always loaded) and walked back to the living room. I put the gun to his head and fired. I emptied the rest of the 8 rounds into him as he fell. I looked at him on the ground, moving around, and went to the kitchen and grabbed a 9mm from a drawer. That held 16 rounds, plus one in the chamber. I put all 17 into him. I then went back to my parent's room...grabbed a .357 revolver and emptied all 6 rounds into his face, while he lay dead on the floor. 32 rounds I put into that fucker. I was Tried in court as an adult, and given a life sentence. After 9 years out on parole." When he stops talking I snap a couple pictures, at this moment of his greatest vulnerability. When I look at the picture later I am struck by the look on his face. He smiled for the camera, but there was no smile in those haunting eyes of his...</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJXnWFPFqWQoDirtod5JgRGRX4HWfKqU2NAhQLwvwYBgjuZr3q1KCXHfmx2spHMYNHI4PQc6lUnlUhyphenhyphen_Wxi4W5T0MeTeydBkHZJmkTCnCwHnphP2QU0-iQ3_3TBDKjHtwthggN_PGudc/s1600/14_1_6_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJXnWFPFqWQoDirtod5JgRGRX4HWfKqU2NAhQLwvwYBgjuZr3q1KCXHfmx2spHMYNHI4PQc6lUnlUhyphenhyphen_Wxi4W5T0MeTeydBkHZJmkTCnCwHnphP2QU0-iQ3_3TBDKjHtwthggN_PGudc/s400/14_1_6_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607725021556827570" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>SCOTT, AGE 26</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">Scott can't look me in the eye when we talk. At some point, while talking to me and looking down, he tells me he's a little "Pensive" I guess what I mean, he says, is I like to think about what I'm going to say before I say it. Pensive, I think, is a great way to describe him, though not for him thinking before speaking. He looks side to side constantly, uncomfortable talking to me. He only looks up a couple of times and as a result I end up with a lot of pictures of him looking down. He tells me a bit of his story, moving around from place to place. I try to understand who he is and why he is here, but I get no where with his story. We are only talking for about 5 minutes when he quickly says that he has to go do something real quick, but promises he will be right back. He jumps up and RUNS down the street and turns the corner. I set there for a second, a little dazed and confused...trying to decide if he really was coming back. After sitting for another 15 minutes, I realize he's not. Pensive I think, and chuckle.</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBuFdAtWkng2w2OKX9O1wzB595n_L_JfarfUnW61S8JT7_SXQX_8z2KK1Jd8xfzHX6iJT2Igy62qFDNIF8Q2EZ6Vpg25xUvDSe0aQ6Xiy2ER84HPPQ95CM5HmqaNJbY1e5sGRq2HpXrk/s1600/14_1_5_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBuFdAtWkng2w2OKX9O1wzB595n_L_JfarfUnW61S8JT7_SXQX_8z2KK1Jd8xfzHX6iJT2Igy62qFDNIF8Q2EZ6Vpg25xUvDSe0aQ6Xiy2ER84HPPQ95CM5HmqaNJbY1e5sGRq2HpXrk/s400/14_1_5_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607724845684697234" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>RICHARD, AGE 37</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; ">Richard was the first that day to make me cry. He heard that I was out on the street doing interviews and paying $5 dollars, so he said he "ran" right over. Rolled, is the truth. Richard is a paraplegic. In fact, besides his torso and back being paralyzed, he has no legs at all. I find out that Richard stays in his wheel chair 24 hours a day, sleeping in at on the street as he has no bed. This has led to "stage 4 bed sores" all the way up his back. He is in terrible pain, wincing constantly. I was thinking this was something he had dealt with a long time when he tells me it's only been about 7 years. He was thirty years old, driving home from Stockton one night. He was going down a small highway when he fell asleep at the wheel. His car rolled about a dozen times, but by a miracle he wasn't hurt. He was thrown out of the car onto the highway. He managed to crawl away from his car when another car coming the other way on the freeway, not seeing him in the darkness, hit him and ran him over. He lost both legs and was paralyzed. I ask if he gets disability checks and he tells me not yet. I'm shocked. It took him a year to get approved for disability to start with (go figure, maybe they thought he would grow his legs back) and by then he was homeless. Unfortunately the State requires that someone have a home address to mail the checks to, so he has yet to receive any. He tells me what he really needs is a new cushion for his chair, the one he has is thin and killing him. He's a little angry at the world, and I think about how I would be too. To have everything taken away like that. Despite the fact that he reeks of urine (he has two bags of urine from his catheters hanging off his wheel chair), I lean down and give Richard a hug. I give him $20 and walk away.</span></em></strong></p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lEWBZyYQVhyphenhyphen_fkcwSfskr4XMbRnDZ7NmAZdsS-M7s5bicaWuHaI08YIBbTUy-tK1g-8ZdO-YKK_KwdZHLLa9WW949bu59Gp7IkrhKojAulozhmgPkcwqj-MXZD7cLPIgdAfoX_xoK0Q/s1600/14_1_7_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lEWBZyYQVhyphenhyphen_fkcwSfskr4XMbRnDZ7NmAZdsS-M7s5bicaWuHaI08YIBbTUy-tK1g-8ZdO-YKK_KwdZHLLa9WW949bu59Gp7IkrhKojAulozhmgPkcwqj-MXZD7cLPIgdAfoX_xoK0Q/s400/14_1_7_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607724615340238530" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>CHANCE, AGE 19</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">I've lived on the street my whole live, Chance tells me. I have a moment where I think...yeah..ok...you're 19. How long is THAT?? I find out. His father went to prison when he was 2, and he was raised by his mother. When he was 9, she had enough and left out on her own. That left Chance at the age of 9, living on the streets of Houston, TX. 9 years old and living on the street. But he said it all worked out...that's where he met his "Family". Gang, is what he meant. He joined a gang at the age of 9, and they looked out for him. Gangs aren't all about fighting, killing and drugs and stuff, he tries to tell me. It's about family to love and protect you. To take care of you. They were there when I needed someone. But, I say...they DO have a lot of that stuff, too, right? (Drugs, violence) Yeah, he says...we have that. He's been in Sacramento for a little less then a year. He's trying to make it on his own..with out the gangs. But he said he was thinking of going back. I think about Taz, and his life on the street. Will that be Chance, 25 years from now? Is there another way. He took the $5 I gave him for the picture, stuck his cigarette in his mouth, and spun and marched off...</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNS3U1kaFNlAlV0R-pPcyoTe0S3Hh2MUMlqIZJxVgMErJ7pE9B5E1IJWHzCX_AmEB8DWtuKQLVFUh0Mx7P-cH8oh6i4EgVqA7ZP9WbqRzoHgmZNvhmWEAyvYGOl0KdygSMegY2hV7_6c/s1600/14_1_8_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNS3U1kaFNlAlV0R-pPcyoTe0S3Hh2MUMlqIZJxVgMErJ7pE9B5E1IJWHzCX_AmEB8DWtuKQLVFUh0Mx7P-cH8oh6i4EgVqA7ZP9WbqRzoHgmZNvhmWEAyvYGOl0KdygSMegY2hV7_6c/s400/14_1_8_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607724426842901890" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><strong><em>UNKNOWN, AGE UNKNOWN</em></strong></p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">I see this man on the corner, with two shopping carts. He is moving things from one cart to another...it looks like he is organizing them. The first thing I notice is the smell. He smells rancid. Beyond rancid. I actually have to stand upwind of him as I feel myself start to gag. I ask if I could talk to him a bit. Ok, he says...I guess. I start with simple ones..like what his name is. He looks at me blankly for a minute, then shakes his head. Your name? Umm... I ask him how old he is, and he shakes his head. You don't know, I say. He looks down and said no. How long have you lived on the street, I ask him. Always? He asks me. How about your parents? I don't have any, do I? You must at some point, I tell him. He shakes his head and says...maybe I have a mother somewhere?? Do you remember your mother? No, he says. Do you have ANY idea how old you were, or how long you have lived on the streets? When I was a baby, he asks? I have a moment where I think how this would actually be funny, if it wasn't so sad. There is nothing inside this guy. No mind, no memory. He's like an animal, who can't communicate and can only focus on surviving. I give him $5, reaching it out from a distance. For the first time since doing these interviews I feel shame. Not only can I not bring myself to hug this guy...I can't actually bring myself to shake his hand. I don't even want my hand close to his when he takes the money. I just want to get away from him. I walk away, my mind racing. I think about the times I felt so good about myself...getting to know some of these people on the street...to see them as people, connect with them...and be able to make physical contact with them. But I can't with this guy. I just feel the need to get away, and it makes me feel even worse. After I speak with him, I sit in my car for a long time...thinking about my encounter with him. And not liking how I felt about it.</p></span>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-63136749569798389692011-04-13T17:05:00.001-07:002011-04-13T17:06:32.532-07:00BROKEN<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivo2A5QHjT5u8XFyv2hulsVsu2pasE_2amUdF5qQrZGy65e-8x5wP50nj-ETyWeG0YU0EhinEnli9txBtHwM8jSKBF5wfWNiVN8ZlQp6S5qF5aE-5aHHJGrvRQrVEvbUJpP5u0IytoCkc/s1600/9_1_1_Bjers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivo2A5QHjT5u8XFyv2hulsVsu2pasE_2amUdF5qQrZGy65e-8x5wP50nj-ETyWeG0YU0EhinEnli9txBtHwM8jSKBF5wfWNiVN8ZlQp6S5qF5aE-5aHHJGrvRQrVEvbUJpP5u0IytoCkc/s400/9_1_1_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595223913271511794" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;">"BROKEN" </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;">This is a homeless man in town, his name is Jon. What makes Jon so different from other homeless I've shot and interviewed is that unlike those that have made choices (good or bad) that have led them to where they are today...Jon is different. Jon is completely Schizophrenic and delusional, with almost no connection to reality. It's one of the reasons whenever I see him on the street, I can't help but to stop and give him whatever few bucks I can. It breaks my heart every time I see this Broken Man.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-61021782863707901932011-03-23T09:08:00.001-07:002011-03-23T09:52:06.220-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">This week has been VERY crazy in my house. My wife got a call on Wednesday morning letting her know that after 12 years with Starbucks corporate, her job was being eliminated. Yikes! Threw us into a bit of a spin. It made me think of a series I did on homes a few years back...and I remember thinking at the time..."There, but for the grace of God, go I". Meaning...we often don't realize how close we could be...with a few bad turn of events..to be one of them. </p><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">With the turn of events...I decided to go downtown and do some homeless shots. The point of taking these images is Not to just get some pictures of homeless...but to humanize them. To learn their story, who they are, and why they are there. Each person I spoke with gets $10 for lunch, a chance to tell their story to someone who really cares (and they know it) and a hug. Here are their stories.....</p></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"></span><p></p></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i>RON, 49</i></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxDEfeqrTb1EEH1lqwY0oJlGhgbKoSlVFl3NBWc5oSb01Bji1CbKf3vSo5XJnNerYRZqaYialqlPWH6a1HTCZE9nOhnCYMnDFVfq9MS8FefpHVq2PR5rFx5pmmR7aZyEEYZ5j1ETwTc/s1600/Homeless1.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxDEfeqrTb1EEH1lqwY0oJlGhgbKoSlVFl3NBWc5oSb01Bji1CbKf3vSo5XJnNerYRZqaYialqlPWH6a1HTCZE9nOhnCYMnDFVfq9MS8FefpHVq2PR5rFx5pmmR7aZyEEYZ5j1ETwTc/s400/Homeless1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587316279843706530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 292px; " /></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; ">I met Ron sitting outside a Del Taco, on an early Monday morning. He was sorting through a bag of recycling when I walked up to ask if he has a little time to chat. He looked at me wearily, but give a quick, sharp nod. Ron grew up in a small Central California town, whose main area jobs consisted of farm work, and packaging. He went to work at a young age picking strawberries in the field..eventually working his way up to working in the packing plant. He married and eventually had one child. They struggled, as many families do, but they made do. Then one day, his 14 year old son was killed by a drunk driver. It it him hard, but his wife harder. He looked at his feet as he told me his wife just couldn't handle it. She just couldn't take it. Just couldn't live like that, without him. He was quiet as he stared at his feet. I wanted to ask what happened to his wife...but felt his silence told me so much. I didn't want to abuse this moment he has let me into his life, so I sat there quietly with him while he kicked a small rock with the toe of his boot. Finally he looked up at me and said..things just never were the same after that. He had a hard time working, lost his house and has been living on the street since. But, he tells me how lucky he is. He has a bike and a small bike trailer, which is loaded down with bedding and tarps. He has more then most, he says. I stood up to say goodbye to Ron, and give him a hug. He gripped the back of my jacket tight, for a long time...not letting go. When he pulled away he turned his head away...and said thank you.</span></div><p style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11px;"><b><i>MAMA SMILES, 56</i></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpcYkGfJ9Z3f9G75Mfv2PS9Q1oZ970vWx5I_N_pIEzD4bMRoHDhw6YLBNVhuhcE3i6ff_aTMZPZaWTb6pTcFtfqIQqD4bFpjCC6oS8cCOuEYEb26LJcdFdJGcoQCnfIopjWWx1bgXUB-k/s1600/Homeless2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpcYkGfJ9Z3f9G75Mfv2PS9Q1oZ970vWx5I_N_pIEzD4bMRoHDhw6YLBNVhuhcE3i6ff_aTMZPZaWTb6pTcFtfqIQqD4bFpjCC6oS8cCOuEYEb26LJcdFdJGcoQCnfIopjWWx1bgXUB-k/s400/Homeless2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587316460330473058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a></span><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 14px; ">I came across a older lady sitting on the curb, with a dog at her feet and two other homeless sitting near here. I was drawn to her as I walked down the street, because I could hear here laughing from a block away. As I walked up, she smiled a HUGE smile at me and said good morning! "Mama". That was what everyone on the street calls her. Mama. Because she takes care of all the younger homeless on the street, making sure they know where to go to be warm or get a meal. She tries to keep them away from the spots the police patrol and share her blankets freely. Oh...but the smile these lady had. She smiled the whole time we sat and talked. Mama has lived on the street since 1984, a lifer on the street. In talking to her, I had a hard time piecing together exactly WHY she ended up here. She told me a story about her brother, and the things he did...but even in telling it, she didn't seem to put a lot of stock in the story herself. I've found there are those on the street that live there as a way of life, and they almost can't see any other way. She even found the "Love of Her Life" on the street 19 years back, and married him. TAS is what she called him. I asked where he was, and for the first time she stopped smiling. Two weeks back they were both arrested for trespassing (trying to find a warm spot in an alley out of a VERY bad storm) They released her after a couple of days, but they were still holding him. She said the worse part was that they take all your stuff; shopping cart, blankets, things like that. She said she had to start all over again gathering things up. But I quickly learned why she was called Mama, because somehow she turned the questions on me...and learned MY story. I found myself telling her about my wife losing her job, and not really knowing WHAT was going to happen. I paused and looked up at her. She had tears in her eyes and was stoking my arm with her hand, as she said...oh it honey, it's ok. Don't worry...Mama loves you and will be here for you. I was so touched at this women, who forgot everything in her life and was so focused on MINE.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><b><i>SARAH, 24</i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgKAnLa3ZpqoNGh0KZULVyx9SbnpZESFjG509qmo7kAH7q5JpLnCwEwgIt_MAXS2_pjBrDKLC45nshFoFgXYM4qjcc19SmoIOY3FvaHJxNHpGoHvTwTd2zZNlH5GEm7mTOuHxfwl6Wzc/s1600/Homeless3.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgKAnLa3ZpqoNGh0KZULVyx9SbnpZESFjG509qmo7kAH7q5JpLnCwEwgIt_MAXS2_pjBrDKLC45nshFoFgXYM4qjcc19SmoIOY3FvaHJxNHpGoHvTwTd2zZNlH5GEm7mTOuHxfwl6Wzc/s400/Homeless3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587316594068392482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 400px; " /></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; ">I met Sarah sitting with Mama. She laughed constantly, though seldom talked, and never looked me in the eye. I learned growing up in South Carolina, her father at lost his job when she was 12. Her parents couldn't afford there children anymore, so they took there 3 kids for a drive down the road and when they stopped for gas let them out of the car. She said her father gave her older sister some money and gave them kisses and hugs goodbye and then just drove off. She didn't understand at first. And who would, right? How does a 12 year old girl understand her parents dropping her off at a gas station and saying goodbye forever? She said she lost "track" of her sisters shortly after that, though she wouldn't really explain what that meant. She wondered around the country, through Texas and into California. Along the way, she said, she has had 3 kids. They all live with their dads, from what she said, but didn't really know where any of them were. It struck me how we are such a product of how we are raised and what we are taught. I'm watching her while she talks, and wonder if she knows how like her father she was. But she tells me all is ok now, because she is now with her "MAMA", who loves her and looks out for her.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><b><i>LAVELLE, 30</i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQrGzZ634sjRYX6gu8Cu-nUcmdDM6iu9fBAOPNF4Ot4A5xhMfGTP00OZ2GhTlaj7VjX787-GRKqJ-Gsv62eQBKa1Ag6HH1NPuxAv-9p8omLE8ctLR71alHHXBcgCEf1OqYYDt5t8wM8M/s1600/Homeless4.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQrGzZ634sjRYX6gu8Cu-nUcmdDM6iu9fBAOPNF4Ot4A5xhMfGTP00OZ2GhTlaj7VjX787-GRKqJ-Gsv62eQBKa1Ag6HH1NPuxAv-9p8omLE8ctLR71alHHXBcgCEf1OqYYDt5t8wM8M/s400/Homeless4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587316723677733922" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; ">Charisma. That was what I thought when I first met Lavelle. This boy has charisma. He was dynamic, engaging and funny. He laughed easily, and joked freely. And he was smart. That was obviously from the way he spoke. I couldn't help but wonder how this kids life would have been different if he had more chances. Or how it could STILL be different, if he had the drive to take advantage of the chances he has. But I really feel he is a strong example of what happens with children in Bad foster homes. He never knew his parents, he said. Didn't know their names, where they were from, or anything. He grew up in foster care. He moved around the system a lot, from home to home. He smiles at one point, and I stop short. All his front teeth are gone, top and bottom. He suddenly stops laughing an get's tight lipped. He tells me at one of the foster homes the "dad" broke all his teeth in with a bat one day. He looks at me very seriously when he says it was probably his fault, anyway. That he was a bad kid back then, and asked for it. My chin almost hit the floor watching the change that came over him. All his confidence was gone. His laughter. His smiles. He said it's cool, cuz you get what you deserve in those places. I think he has been told so much growing up that he isn't worth anything, and he doesn't deserve anything good...that he actually believes it. He has internalized it. It has become him. When I leave I keep thinking how I still think this kid could do so much, if he JUST thought he was worth it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">WILLIE LOVE, 69</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;color:#332222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nSdIpDNj3StBHIrIq2KvFt92i8qh2pDGfV7D1CSLeSS01BOT3YBhKqoOFpxRsAp5rsUtIYFmkCLAERJE6Ydx1Ogrrm1FAjfmLk4bR9mD06QujbAsKt9yz_19gZytlFeU9uRx9WT4c5A/s1600/Homeless5.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nSdIpDNj3StBHIrIq2KvFt92i8qh2pDGfV7D1CSLeSS01BOT3YBhKqoOFpxRsAp5rsUtIYFmkCLAERJE6Ydx1Ogrrm1FAjfmLk4bR9mD06QujbAsKt9yz_19gZytlFeU9uRx9WT4c5A/s400/Homeless5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587314976081542882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); line-height: 14px; font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 34, 34); line-height: 14px; font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;"> Love spoke with such a soft voice, I found myself leaning close to him to hear...thus he drew me in. He reached out while speaking to me...almost as if to shake my hand, but never let go of it while we talked. At first this made me feel slightingly uncomfortable, sitting here holding hands with this man. But his way was so soft and gentle, it almost made me feel like I was a child again, sitting and talking to my own grandfather. But what Willy Love spoke of was hard to follow. His story ran in circles, talking about money that was coming soon one minute, then how he was going to be a finance banker the next. I realized that Willy either suffered from Alzeimer's or Senility. We sat there for 45 minutes as I listened to him talk, wondering what stories were drawn from some reality and which ones weren't. I found myself wishing I had the chance to sit and speak with this gentle, kind man before his mind was gone. I wondered if he still had family out there somewhere, maybe even searching for him. I hugged him like he WAS my long gone grandfather, and I moved on......</span></span></span></div></span>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-67499127820255337132009-12-11T09:19:00.000-08:002009-12-11T09:22:47.207-08:00Color Version<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTonEGF0LcpqeINuaq7rsj0uA-WSAY5WyEr6h6d53tIOR_0EFbNSO3xTf-xZOtI1Ok-zRamuYtujreD2CSZpEJOiwf6tjeLYkLOAcIjKQJqHUF1R-ppzLTdgFTd0FLpHE06F8cEZuqIy0/s1600-h/Homeless2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTonEGF0LcpqeINuaq7rsj0uA-WSAY5WyEr6h6d53tIOR_0EFbNSO3xTf-xZOtI1Ok-zRamuYtujreD2CSZpEJOiwf6tjeLYkLOAcIjKQJqHUF1R-ppzLTdgFTd0FLpHE06F8cEZuqIy0/s400/Homeless2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414030301219747266" /></a><br />I have had requests from people to post the color version of this image. Mind you...while it is color, this images has been a little Desaturated to mute the color a bit, making it more dramatic.<div><br /></div><div>Which do you prefer? The Black and White or the Color?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-56636671339395410872009-12-08T08:32:00.000-08:002009-12-08T12:33:52.230-08:00Umbrella of Society<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_M1QQ1WfNz1ujJArzn4JBOaIDjzeJW-lBrJdolsTzajXrElBR7aGA5MasbrUay7xVpfQr7xAOIi00QhbIRqc6cP19KhAFO17OpG8-Y5xhj3J6_uye2KA1CZO9XP_t95koN2lt9LC-jA/s400/S_Bjers_m13a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412909260100804194" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTOkGgNQvbdmrIBQHGHJSPHBrcGf-WJj5QKcJhCBxORufx0kgpu1LlRCf0dQIBZf6tk30_Ixm-_LC7V1G1EDVGuckWmNTiNmer71zjijkXJtQ1E4KXJFwiS4qxR01cBkxICBZ3VMPq5A/s400/S_Bjers_m13b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412909348466898034" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuF2LXFVcQ0cCD0k8NXaVSNGKHP08ZpsIuwDrmwQdXMx0MSloQrbYSq68Ox-vrl7CBVdZNWF7mStWZ2-GlhkmE52S7Tlb25UoCPiKr-Rw51cwpd_8KbRWgEqVj6OwtuTYRS8n1njHD1c/s400/S_Bjers_m13c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412909444215373826" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjND9oUsZNo07x_oe_Cpys7RB5MFiDerF7yfYZUu2FsNd76IKJp36zZaIUIzHP2MulrtGgwUNpXC4c5-hCwcpmlvhDk0RRmmFJGPvfceQvgXhkNg_J_D8uSzncrPBSUa4iqHiUqFcN_-g0/s400/S_Bjers_m13d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412909713407184770" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-XmvwR97wngov_y9EzYbLUgPw6SafpDhi9rScooAD_fUrQUepiRA1o_TBOoPAMvEOa5rb3jvhaW90LBauXgzRxcxepI3eIgO88iDZ-bGt05x5ZNcNQr5FngXjBi9S0EbQyjMaWTJmoY/s400/S_Bjers_m13e.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412909794968956482" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mUCJowYAGhtynpRqx9yS5yrmNWO87GpXSqHTeM1LRwFOBhS5xPAUYnjImaSXIuIumSSkxin3N6jcq68WiBtuoPefcBvNYeXd2o3xvkjry8FjxjK8SrO1VnNIYg7TrpkSyhAnz-janv8/s1600-h/Homeless.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mUCJowYAGhtynpRqx9yS5yrmNWO87GpXSqHTeM1LRwFOBhS5xPAUYnjImaSXIuIumSSkxin3N6jcq68WiBtuoPefcBvNYeXd2o3xvkjry8FjxjK8SrO1VnNIYg7TrpkSyhAnz-janv8/s400/Homeless.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412910332021092994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I was wanting to continue my work on the homeless images I started doing. For the final project in one of my color photography classes, I decided to incorporate some of this work with the class. <div><br /></div><div>I was trying to decide how I wanted to introduce color to these images...since I prefer them in black and white. I feel that they are LIVING in a black and white world. And that was when I was hit with this idea. It IS a black and white world for them...</div><div><br /></div><div>I decided to use the color of a red umbrella. My thought was to be that the red umbrella would represent society....with all its protection, security and comfort. But these individuals are living OUTSIDE that comfort of the umbrella.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first image is of a man of comfort. Retired, spending the morning at the golf course. The umbrella of society safely over his head.</div><div>The next image is of a homeless man, sitting, looking away from the umbrella. Does he even know it's THERE? Is it simply a matter of him reaching out and picking it up...holding it over his head. Can he rejoin society That easily? Is it just a matter of choice for him? But he doesn't even look that way. Maybe he doesn't even realize it COULD be that easy. Or maybe it isn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>The third image is of a man, talking on his iPhone..standing in front of a Mercedes. Hmmm....nothing seems to say wealth in our society like a brand new Mercedes. </div><div>The fourth image is of a man I met in the park. Talking to him, I learned that he hates the "establishment" (who still uses this word?)..the government....the masses. They are all out to get us...or him...or maybe me, he says. But according to him..he chooses the live he lives. Ironically, for all his talk about hate...he smiled easily and readily, and patted me on the back a lot. He was quick with a smile and quick with a joke. I decided in this image to have him standing on the umbrella...as a symbol that HE chooses to ignore the umbrella...not pick it up, but to step on it instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last image I find kind of ironic. Here is a lady, all wrapped up for the rain. Her belongings are wrapped in plastic bags to keep them dry, and she is wrapped up in a cheap rain cover. She is sitting there being rained on. And right next to her...leaning against the wall with...Indifference?....is the umbrella. How easily it could cover her. But, ironically...it's not even being USED. Just sitter their, while she get's rained on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh...and I am including a bonus picture. The second homeless man, Darnell, posed for several pictures for me. I ended up with one that I felt really captured the whimsical nature of this man on the street, so I am posting that one, as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>And don't worry...as always each of the homeless that posed for me was bought lunch and had the chance to sit with me and tell me their story. I find that more than the meal, the appreciate two things from me. Someone to listen to their story...to be interested, ask questions and really HEAR them. The second being physical contact. It's amazing the power of a hug...but I find that these people I shoot almost are happiest with the hug at the end...and afterward, the keep patting me on the back and shaking my hand. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thinking they don't get a lot of hugs living on the street.....</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-79936727547104547742009-10-08T16:13:00.000-07:002009-10-08T16:44:44.817-07:00And a Hawk Takes Flight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSMDuHp3_hxOuq3RxTf3ACr2swBsagMlt7UMts56EAoDYSKHRMSwbExEBQJ8x6bZqhavPKa2BLbUuO1_-v8o6W8tA9KeKGNzAapvGGLaqaVyCohfdYy3Y4dZZgYdI4zVM8w0gOK7-aDM/s1600-h/HawkDone.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSMDuHp3_hxOuq3RxTf3ACr2swBsagMlt7UMts56EAoDYSKHRMSwbExEBQJ8x6bZqhavPKa2BLbUuO1_-v8o6W8tA9KeKGNzAapvGGLaqaVyCohfdYy3Y4dZZgYdI4zVM8w0gOK7-aDM/s400/HawkDone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390379281655109794" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZDzW-qCf0EPQ0-iFRRCwcRXRahWxQ1Wuy7mKaDe4-NCRWHilTVSLy3Bd7PhYwvJo6uLp7jBEID8zbXNfLS7HOhwz0rcYENmf7vRL3qOAl0ico8I4xxEWGfcQPNfU_UGIVPrJcjnhyphenhyphenDg/s1600-h/HawkDone2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZDzW-qCf0EPQ0-iFRRCwcRXRahWxQ1Wuy7mKaDe4-NCRWHilTVSLy3Bd7PhYwvJo6uLp7jBEID8zbXNfLS7HOhwz0rcYENmf7vRL3qOAl0ico8I4xxEWGfcQPNfU_UGIVPrJcjnhyphenhyphenDg/s400/HawkDone2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390379192789143954" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>I am blessed to live in a very amazing place. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a house in Mather, CA. We are surrounded by open fields that are environmentally protected land. They are filled with vernal pools and ponds, their are hawks, eagles, egrets, kites (the bird, not the toy), coyotes, and all kinds of other fun stuff. On top of this, my house backs up to one of these fields, complete with creek. I can sit in my back yard, on my patio furniture...enjoying a glass of wine with my wife and watch the hawks fly over our heads.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the last few years I've been hoping to get a good shot of a hawk or eagle...but as yet, the timing hasn't been great. Well....this week it all came together...</div><div><br /></div><div>I was driving out of the neighborhood, on my way to meet a client, when I saw this beautiful hawk sitting on a sign relaxing. At first I was concerned he was injured, since he was holding his week out at a weird angle. I realized after a minute of watching him that he was just cleaning and fluffing his feathers. </div><div>I had my camera on the seat, with a Canon 70-200mm f2.8 IS lens on the camera...but that just wasn't going to get me close enough. I KNEW it and didn't want to waste the chance I finally had.</div><div>Luckily, sitting on the back seat was a big gun....my two foot long zoom up to 750mm that I use for sports. I quickly changed lenses and stepped out of the car.</div><div>I took a moment to take stock of my situation...see how far I was from the hawk (not too close yet) and look through the lens to see how my shot looked so far.</div><div>...I sighed in frustration.... Even with this mega lens...he was still just a small spot in the frame. This was NOT the photograph I was looking for.</div><div><br /></div><div>I took a second and set camera up. I took a spot meter reading of the light with my camera light meter... set my shot up in manual mode (details for you photographers out there..) with the exposure to be a little bright (using ETTR, Exposing To The Right)... I set my lens to manual focus. As fast as cameras and lenses are these days...the time it's going to take to focus if the hawk takes off...well...just take to long. Also, I make sure my lens is set to Image Stabilization.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok...so here is my dilemma. I'm going to walk toward this hawk...very slowly, trying not to scare him. I'm hand holding my camera...which any photographer out there is going to say..oh my...really? Why? Because it is VERY hard to hand hold a 750mm lens....besides being HEAVY...what you are looking at in the lens jumps around...you have to have a VERY steady hand. Plus, you tend to get a lot of blurring of the image. </div><div>Second problem...as I move forward, I'm losing my focus (since I'm on manual focus)</div><div><br /></div><div>So I set the camera to my eye, and old the lens out...kinda like it were a rifle, fingers on the focus ring...shifting the focus as I move. With my feet spread wide, I start moving forward VERY slowly! VERY slowly! I can't see my feet...so I have to kinda..slide them forward. </div><div>Oh...was this a VERY painstaking and tiring process. My arms are burning from holding the lens out there...but I can't rest my arms and risk him moving. </div><div><br /></div><div> Plus, he is WATCHING me. Oh yes. The reflection on my lens probably caught his attention, and I'm afraid if I lowered my camera he would spook and fly. As it was...he was tensed and ready to spring. So I kept going...15, maybe 20 minutes..maybe less..it felt like forever.</div><div><br /></div><div>And finally...He DID spring. He launched himself in the air, moving at a speed that I just couldn't believe. I was ready...and starting firing shots off as fast as I could. And even shoting a burst of about 12 shots in TWO seconds...I managed to get about...oh...5 in the frame.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes... it took him about 2 seconds to travel about 10 feet. It was amazing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was VERY pleased when I got home and found that I finally caught a shot I have been trying for for years. And it only inspired me to get MORE!</div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sean Thomas Bjers</div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-90369590345070747542009-07-20T22:20:00.001-07:002009-07-20T22:34:22.838-07:00Darian + Christine - A Wedding Preview<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5oap2z5mwWEoTRJl-BLgdPwxeToxPqInWNP6zrKELbegClKb9Icr6B_PA44VocGDgCj5Rs7HyoU6UpCIEP5_MeBQmlYvRHI2Kh4DwV1jzPlEVN7WuwTv79SOvr8U0LB5oq7vmGdU-Q8/s1600-h/Blog1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5oap2z5mwWEoTRJl-BLgdPwxeToxPqInWNP6zrKELbegClKb9Icr6B_PA44VocGDgCj5Rs7HyoU6UpCIEP5_MeBQmlYvRHI2Kh4DwV1jzPlEVN7WuwTv79SOvr8U0LB5oq7vmGdU-Q8/s400/Blog1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360782365497132674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDgMfYeaAhyJ6oE81hPaBKl62H0edDNCsJuZilXsnZ2GXf5CckTP0mmNN4CCVJpXt5A_QPN3ovraISfOGGVjniHaf6mbz8Y_QDf64iAmqJ5gNnBqcOM8noQZRjaHbPyI0Hm4DdhGRIQ4/s1600-h/Blog2.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5YktazP3USi_gmg8BoFevAGGlg2QrU9sLlbhKZ3xcrwoh6d69SxVK7yFjni6ARZJ9UBEb0cZ-ogSW0I_oygDPE0l66Fu56-i3ISjLhn5X0_HtVQRDij2k0x4IkCcjCALaLSDuSPcsy4/s400/Blog20.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360780241274627506" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIQGuIT_pNipVoBkL4NNkyjInrp1RDBlpeyETsarYLlwB6wwIQmjTxj1C4XlMSd5HsxJ4ooza9rHKyrcZy7TXBHcRPvx9J2Khg69NZqxypjq-HeKowUz2muY8NAcxp5vPfQSTu8wqY_E/s1600-h/Blog21.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIQGuIT_pNipVoBkL4NNkyjInrp1RDBlpeyETsarYLlwB6wwIQmjTxj1C4XlMSd5HsxJ4ooza9rHKyrcZy7TXBHcRPvx9J2Khg69NZqxypjq-HeKowUz2muY8NAcxp5vPfQSTu8wqY_E/s400/Blog21.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360780234328370610" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFodIeCrcswx9PBqlMBpEZ09ylvk9qdMD4XFftvjI8vlKY0cyaGkc5t6tmYDRKsbqFo1PIwwkUkpxtHe7Ja_sp1JYOB2CoCQ1_rV3P0Mv4pyjbNIRmVbyQk_3-bYnLP80lQUU6MnG1B48/s1600-h/Blog22.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFodIeCrcswx9PBqlMBpEZ09ylvk9qdMD4XFftvjI8vlKY0cyaGkc5t6tmYDRKsbqFo1PIwwkUkpxtHe7Ja_sp1JYOB2CoCQ1_rV3P0Mv4pyjbNIRmVbyQk_3-bYnLP80lQUU6MnG1B48/s400/Blog22.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360779738980560674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoPg2K7fzTVPsZjG07y1cqILXSsSchu3MOFmhidkJg8ZIhvmt3NAKyq-pmckeYjkhEUQPaAgQ7YG0pLyBwGHWoIeB2wHFNM0bTVbLVadmKFBllYq29kHhG4E2qDcP4FINRe4C50ttQAw/s1600-h/Blog23.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoPg2K7fzTVPsZjG07y1cqILXSsSchu3MOFmhidkJg8ZIhvmt3NAKyq-pmckeYjkhEUQPaAgQ7YG0pLyBwGHWoIeB2wHFNM0bTVbLVadmKFBllYq29kHhG4E2qDcP4FINRe4C50ttQAw/s400/Blog23.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360779732773971490" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWYZiRxnpav0BAZgWJDjShw5i1w-A-za0HBwLPEhQaxjaH1w3bYBZDB2dBsFNm0XNBdcT03HevcKqeVT1jkXmsQ-GKqtuUWotZlYP0kepPzmNcMyG-R-wHoiPycf3OnpMjMrMOV12qL0/s1600-h/Blog24.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWYZiRxnpav0BAZgWJDjShw5i1w-A-za0HBwLPEhQaxjaH1w3bYBZDB2dBsFNm0XNBdcT03HevcKqeVT1jkXmsQ-GKqtuUWotZlYP0kepPzmNcMyG-R-wHoiPycf3OnpMjMrMOV12qL0/s400/Blog24.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360779719374206642" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k-G3vItJ5LRvgLRzatQ6-oBBdsIuGPV_RdJgqkumy34dmA3YgRLzx2fdCeEwxGu7CgM4bTnfbhNtngNgcnJUIE7DZNv6HcEWwBeaXMKv14DEYnD9hmeNaL4oFksV0BAcmOUzAfIuSzQ/s1600-h/Blog25.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k-G3vItJ5LRvgLRzatQ6-oBBdsIuGPV_RdJgqkumy34dmA3YgRLzx2fdCeEwxGu7CgM4bTnfbhNtngNgcnJUIE7DZNv6HcEWwBeaXMKv14DEYnD9hmeNaL4oFksV0BAcmOUzAfIuSzQ/s400/Blog25.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360779699755263698" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjYtwHrsgAolnKVP1-BIy9HRVgI1d0QwG6oG0EWONI2LYUnqd3W5FUJKZWBRW72-KzK9CcTpTZIKq0sS6Y0MiCm9URYFEvRvIx2OpAFkxnMQHRzbnaCAWC7KVpOhmoovQhxa3rlbp1Yw/s1600-h/Blog26.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjYtwHrsgAolnKVP1-BIy9HRVgI1d0QwG6oG0EWONI2LYUnqd3W5FUJKZWBRW72-KzK9CcTpTZIKq0sS6Y0MiCm9URYFEvRvIx2OpAFkxnMQHRzbnaCAWC7KVpOhmoovQhxa3rlbp1Yw/s400/Blog26.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360779688154220802" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Last weekend I had the distinct honor to photograph the wedding of Darian and Christine. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can honestly say that these are two of the nicest people I've ever met, and it was a pleasure to photograph the two of them on their day of celebrating their love. These two are such a joy to watch together, and their love for each other is evident to everyone who sees them together.</div><div><br /></div><div>The wedding was held on Sunday, about 3 hours out of sacramento at a beautiful ski resort called Kirkwood. It is an AMAZING location, about 8,000 ft elevation, nestled in the mountain and surrounded by trees and wildflowers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being adventurous as they are, they did the ceremony on the TOP of the mountain. The bride and groom and all the guest (even the 73 year old grandma!) took the lift up the mountain to the site. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got some amazing pictures and I decided to post a handful of them here for people to get the chance to see.</div><div><br /></div><div>Congratulation to you Darian and Christine! May your love always continue to shine as bright as it does today!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sean</div></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-65859234446965354592009-07-18T17:46:00.000-07:002009-07-18T17:55:26.830-07:00The Degradation of Grandpa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUxZnuTLU9khzw-yBzzi_62Me_6ZEigfnOnR2cwjO9NfC8xzdUabd7Y0vCkyFqBSVlJcgbdr2tn9aiuMbG2HFIV97mYyR-eM8qTkMKFXJl_tWK_9Xm5X7vLiZiUW0b7c4ouIgDJEBjAg/s1600-h/10_1_Bjers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUxZnuTLU9khzw-yBzzi_62Me_6ZEigfnOnR2cwjO9NfC8xzdUabd7Y0vCkyFqBSVlJcgbdr2tn9aiuMbG2HFIV97mYyR-eM8qTkMKFXJl_tWK_9Xm5X7vLiZiUW0b7c4ouIgDJEBjAg/s400/10_1_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359966877697251058" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Ok...another art school project!<div><br /></div><div>This one was a lot of fun to do. My project was to take one of three sayings..."This is the End", "Only down hill from here" and "Burning the candle at both ends"</div><div><br /></div><div>I decided to do This is the end, though, I DO think it could have been Only down hill from here....</div><div><br /></div><div>I came up with the idea yesterday, and sitting around the couch last night I ran it past Grandpa Sy, Emily, myself and a couple others...we all talked it over and everyone threw in some ideas and and took those to refine the image I saw in my head. The idea was to show a guy pretty beat up, looking tired and worn, probably celebrating his birthday alone....ummm...is he thinking of offing himself? Who knows....maybe after he finishes his last beer.... The picture was done in Black and White to make it more dramatic. Nothing was done in photoshop to the picture...but it was sharpened in RAW a bit, and added a little contrast.</div><div><br /></div><div>All I have to say is....Grandpa Sy is the best sport ever. Not many people would be willing to pose for a picture that makes them look so bad...oh...and NO...he doesn't smoke. lol.</div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy!</div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-69976300955833065142009-06-28T08:19:00.001-07:002009-06-28T08:30:44.564-07:00Summer is here at LAST!<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlUmNqqzm4nY6gHbzjsAhYqjK7CcanJR0qm0vyllKxZEsN602TAeagDlmFJFDpbfoTzUONnQMKWeuo0cquVURJ3ljutmdvB6TczpxG_tBQAExXj5cvAXKjgNCRUjN4cYDyT1AxdqT2xc/s400/4_1_Bjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352398953272523010" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQCO_viE_eippT7Z809E6pLbHYmPdHEVKVdytKF4aytj7t5Kgyg45MBrG5EUQ-oii76CCW1GPTzOgLuEd53qCQZsg7aI8PEegMNzaR6TqlzgbMkj28YHvzwqKRYkwbOXa6JdR5U1uYuQ/s1600-h/PoolSplash.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQCO_viE_eippT7Z809E6pLbHYmPdHEVKVdytKF4aytj7t5Kgyg45MBrG5EUQ-oii76CCW1GPTzOgLuEd53qCQZsg7aI8PEegMNzaR6TqlzgbMkj28YHvzwqKRYkwbOXa6JdR5U1uYuQ/s400/PoolSplash.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352399161951978002" /></a>I was asked to do a photo that to ME represented life in Sacramento...right now. Well...with the crazy 105 temperature....My first thought were how we live and die by the water here in Sactown. When it gets warm...we live at on our boats at the lake or river, we float down the river in big yellow rafts (getting horrible sunburns in the process)...we swim at the lake, in our pool, in the river. If you don't OWN a pool...you FIND someone who does!<div><br /></div><div>So I first set out to get some pictures of the river..with people rafting. The lake and people boating. In the process, I got the top picture of the kayaks, which I really like. This was taken out at the Aquatic Center at Natomas Lake. Very cool place, if you've never been there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, with my hot and tired kids in tow, we finally headed home. My kids the whole time kept saying...DAD! Can't we just go home and swim?? Can't we just go swim??</div><div><br /></div><div>Well...later that day, sitting in the pool...with my kids and a neighbor kid jumping and playing in the pool...I realized.....THIS is MY life in Sacramento in the summer. My pool. Because during the summer, I don't want to be anywhere else but my own home, in or beside my pool...with my kids swimming and yelling, and a tri-tip on the BBQ!</div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed my camera and had the kids take turns doing their bust jumps and dives into the pool. The result was a neighbor kid, John, who would do the best swan dive/belly flop.</div><div><br /><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-44357235867540636242009-06-23T09:48:00.000-07:002009-06-23T10:08:51.295-07:00The Couture Connection Shoot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8PkvqAqi7CWmvkC3Hn0vJArpVEeMXQYOeyD28SXa0GHkeBiownWj_7oPxMAqWv2Aw6VWBOW6Th3DrkjRmfnVlnAr8YqHW_uehRjb_y_sHHGpHP0_HjQ0DKBMXRC044DL0kU3ATsmQNw/s1600-h/IMG_0670.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8PkvqAqi7CWmvkC3Hn0vJArpVEeMXQYOeyD28SXa0GHkeBiownWj_7oPxMAqWv2Aw6VWBOW6Th3DrkjRmfnVlnAr8YqHW_uehRjb_y_sHHGpHP0_HjQ0DKBMXRC044DL0kU3ATsmQNw/s320/IMG_0670.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350568917700172450" /></a><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG52TY9ro9AFEEYjS9dEaBt-bevLLKImCGQ-FRX1k33gzqFyLc1eZmawzT3mmZJ1asUjBwyqnj_GlZ9QGmT4jJaYac9SxNRhhY676UaD-KwGy_TEbCkqWXFOkwSp0v8d0jFyeXAXXmZBM/s320/IMG_0548.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350568923155285778" /><br /><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKq8XxYPfE8F250yjomzW-HWFOqJvQED4uEsjb3linyTfBo6iUVpJEAdDA7pLs7yxzuvxuIsVTObS03-FeWWvLq1N2Yh0-i7xF0C4poSD-8_nh1j397rM4WwconSjpJH7sJcOY0_EsTfE/s320/IMG_0492.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350566474383125906" /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVt_v4tu2pIlM1aJcSZPh3nSAokslDBl1BoUDbEtikh3zxQ2NWRf_qS-1IYvkZlbkOXyEMmj3GCD4hLEnft94fqyHKpDHhN5GoA1VmyPquD6uI7Z8dHDje06okqaMevyvh5t2kyoqSZU/s320/IMG_0544.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350567832304531874" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_jk4tMLFfjV5Kthu-SiDIbdur3ZBpLI3kEfN3hNyzp_WpoN2yOMv5p2hFlGq-f61U1QECMjrznL8dbpdWMahyphenhyphenqPznDHJLbgpRSwRKyeTDN2dkZ4S2EJCHPSklFWYwHmZTdEH3UuDsms/s1600-h/IMG_0476.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_jk4tMLFfjV5Kthu-SiDIbdur3ZBpLI3kEfN3hNyzp_WpoN2yOMv5p2hFlGq-f61U1QECMjrznL8dbpdWMahyphenhyphenqPznDHJLbgpRSwRKyeTDN2dkZ4S2EJCHPSklFWYwHmZTdEH3UuDsms/s320/IMG_0476.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350567622188796402" /><br /></a><div>Last Friday I did a photoshoot for the Couture Connection. This is one of my clients that is a online clothing catalog.</div><div><br /></div><div>We did the shoot in the morning in my midtown studio, and we had only 3 hours to finish. Needless to say, it was RUSH RUSH RUSH.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt bad for the models, because of the all the rushing and hurrying. There were seven models, a couple of production people (like hair and makup) and a handful of obvservers in the studio. It started with a frantic pace, models running to the changing area to get changed and running back to the area where we were shooting. Like I said, three hours and a LOT of clothing to get through. The ONLY way we were going to finish on budget were with the very hard work of the owner, KIM, organizing things, and the very hard work of the models rushing around!</div><div><br /></div><div>That said, somehow, someway, it seemed to all be so smooth. The models were awesome. They were poised and professional, working hard...but through the whole thing, what really struck me was how NICE they all were. Despite my constant yelling of "NEXT!" and move left, move right, find your mark, turn your head, smile, don't smile, move your shirt, Other LEG!...they stayed happy, and friendly. They joked and played, while maintaining a great work ethic. The experience was great, and I really can't wait to work with all these girls again!</div><div>Oh...and I think it was said that next time we were going to both extend the hours, and have tequila on site. </div><div><br /></div><div>Should be interesting!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-12676916732841465552009-06-22T20:36:00.000-07:002009-06-22T20:39:33.975-07:00Playing by the Pool, Summer Vacation<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_D1q9ZwRwaNsXNk54FwLVrRL7GUzLMALD0w6E3OqZNWD-eDVEIzoPlK9XwhIJt1zj2jA86xVj0gNn5KXi-6wdsvkGb3582cPWkXXObTd1lA5rOzGJuaumETng4pZjBQ3ViHAhMmFa43w/s1600-h/Swim.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-decoration: underline;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_D1q9ZwRwaNsXNk54FwLVrRL7GUzLMALD0w6E3OqZNWD-eDVEIzoPlK9XwhIJt1zj2jA86xVj0gNn5KXi-6wdsvkGb3582cPWkXXObTd1lA5rOzGJuaumETng4pZjBQ3ViHAhMmFa43w/s400/Swim.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350362103503065922" /></a>Summer has been fun so far....my two boys are home for summer break, Eric (12) and Ryan (5 1/2). What do we do all summer long??<div><br /></div><div>Swim, for one!!</div><div><br /></div><div>We have been spending so much time by the pool, that we are all getting tan. Today, Eric was ALL OVER THE PLACE...so I thought I would shoot a picture that showed him everywhere.</div><div>This is fun little picture to do, and really pretty easy!</div><div><br /></div><div>Hope you enjoy!</div><div><br /></div><div>Seam</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-83324261786770219982009-06-21T12:17:00.000-07:002009-06-22T10:40:46.024-07:00Art School Assignment<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_ShKHAOZ4W-LXS7ep3m31vzHp5jiEovWWViHbb6vwXiFaS_1UibeMADHcPMfmS8BNaYo_DBvesWDaLH8UfwbOQRlpXUmalSlEakJHa0YeC0sH1-zCxf1b4H0V4P9e5DlXY4d_mrYh1I/s200/IMG_0707.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349862495377264082" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUKOUneEVMU38TkwRQZlV61_Ts8AEw89TMRFVHiz9bKZZq3WgHF74NoBrix3laQbO5UvzrxA7c73iuKDJtP5C74Pdf7Pul0v-mSmHSL5zfyHY2z2yGyy5-CCCuibk7r4eHTVYUQiFwMc/s1600-h/IMG_0716.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUKOUneEVMU38TkwRQZlV61_Ts8AEw89TMRFVHiz9bKZZq3WgHF74NoBrix3laQbO5UvzrxA7c73iuKDJtP5C74Pdf7Pul0v-mSmHSL5zfyHY2z2yGyy5-CCCuibk7r4eHTVYUQiFwMc/s320/IMG_0716.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350206479482977602" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQCNqoBODG1T581nqnJoaE9Rm-R22lnM1y0TAfaqToRBk2bOHcMaLko64OBj-7cttqbvDfbbemPsmJlbR5rzsf226BfrpwAcC4j4ZbX1mjv9NX7Y1M4ljyKDYN5aUKLNepaIvxbAw1bs/s200/3_1_1_SeanBjers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349862934866771154" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ok, so I had an assignment this week in art school, where I had to go and photograph three complete strangers, and talk with them. I think for a lot of people this is a very hard assignment, but for those of you who know me....talking is NOT a problem. I am NOT shy by any means.</div><div style="text-align: left;">After some time thinking about it, I decided to photograph some homeless. My thought was, I would offer them $5 to take their picture and talk with them. I thought that the money would help and could tell myself I was doing something good. What I experienced was totally different than I expected.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I decided to post what I wrote for school here, in it's entirety. I hope you find it interesting, and would love people to post their comments about it....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">__________________</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px; font-family:Verdana;font-size:10px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Being a pretty outgoing person, and coming from a past in sales, I walk up and talk to strangers all the time.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So for this assignment, I decided to walk up and talk to people I DON’T normally walk up and talk to. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My studio is in downtown area of Sacramento.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This morning I had a photo shoot in studio, and after we were done I grabbed my camera and started walking the streets.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My goal was to find people that NOBODY talks to.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We all have these people in our towns, and most tend to look the other way when we see them.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I think, maybe, because deep down our fears tell us that but for a little luck, that could be us.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But thinking that people don’t talk to them, I was thinking they would have a story to be told. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The first person I came across was a man standing near a bus stop on a fairly busy street.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At first I was thinking he was waiting for the bus to come, but as I stood there and watched, bus after bus came and went.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I walked up to, a bit nervous to tell the truth, and said awkwardly “Hi, my name’s Sean”.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He just looked at me, with such serious, sad eyes, judging me.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Trying to decide, maybe if I was to be trusted or not.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I quickly explained to him that I was an art student out taking pictures of people and that I found him very interesting.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I asked him if he minded if I took his picture and talked with him a bit.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In truth, he really just seemed relieved for a moment that someone wanted to hear his story.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Anyone. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">His name was John.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He’s lived all over the country, mostly doing odd jobs, handy man work.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When he was younger, he was able to work construction sites, and larger jobs.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But some years back he had some problems with his heart.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not having insurance, he lost the very little security he lost.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He endured 5 rounds of heart surgery, with no family to sit with him in recovery.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He was alone, and scared.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now, a few years later, he is living on Disability Insurance, and moving from home to home.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sometimes living on the street, sometimes in the shelter.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">What really moved me about John was his eyes.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">His eyes, that seemed to watch the world, with such concern.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When we were done, I told him I’d like to buy him lunch and slipped him five bucks.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was weird how it felt great to do something for him, and to LISTEN to him, but at the same time it felt so insignificant. Like so little. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Next I came across Lloyd.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With his large and grizzled beard, he was standing on the corner selling newspapers.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Next to him, leaning against a small brick wall, is his bicycle, complete with bike trailer full of sleeping bags and camping gear.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Feeling emboldened by my last encounter, I walked up near</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">and leaned on the brick wall.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I asked if he had a moment to chat.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He flashed me a quick grin, and said sure to me, how could he help me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">How could he help me.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He asked me how HE could help ME.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I remember looking at this man, thinking how he must be down near the lowest point in his life, and thinking he is offering to help ME.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I smiled back at him and said I would just love to chat with him a moment and hear about his story. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After Lloyd’s wife died, he decided to retire.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He had worked hard all his life and was just ready for a break.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He didn’t have much, but he did have his Social Security check.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He decided after he retired to move in with his younger sister.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">She had a house up north in Sacramento, and was living there alone.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lloyd lived with her for several years, until two years ago, when she lost her job and then lost her house.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It’s not an uncommon story in California right now.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Foreclosures are all around us and again, we just thank God it’s not us.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But with his sister losing her house, she was forced to move in with friends.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There being no room for Lloyd, he moved to the street.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But with a smile, Lloyd told me don’t worry.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It’s not that bad, and things are going to get better.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was so moved by his view of the world.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This man had nothing, yet in truth, he seemed to have EVERYTHING.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I told him when I left that I’d love to buy him lunch and offered him five dollars.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He told me not to worry, it was just nice to have someone to talk to.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I told him don’t take it for him, then, take it for me.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Because it makes ME feel good, and told him to let me be selfish.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He took the money, stuffed it into his pocket, then leaned over and gave me a hug.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He muttered thank you in my ear, then I turned and walked away.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I wanted to be able to give him more, but I think he gave me more instead. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As I walked through a downtown park, I saw a man laying on the grass.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Near him were some friends sitting and talking.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I thought he looked like the perfect person to talk to and photograph, so I approached him.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At this point I felt confident and comfortable approaching him, but when I tried to talk to him, he told me in very expressive language to get away from him.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Of course this only made me more interested in him and his story.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After convincing him I wasn’t the police, the government, or his enemy, he agreed to chat and let me take his picture.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As soon as I sat down on the grass to talk to “Rabbit”, I could smell the booze on his breath.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I thought about aborting this conversation, but then I thought that would be too easy.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I chatted with Rabbit for a while, trying to learn his story.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">What I learned was that he was seriously drunk.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He struggled to lean on his shoulder for a picture, I shoot my pictures, and took off.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All in all, not a pleasant experience talking to Rabbit. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1ex; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1ex; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Three people, three different stories, and three very different outlooks on life.</span></p></span></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-47828579666371608332009-04-28T10:33:00.000-07:002009-04-30T10:46:09.293-07:00And the EYES have it......<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7R6fhdLABQih8lbQXL2gVCzQr2fw1boqlHjNqH1gFbxhx2o1dnhVZIT8dHO1BCtgrzd2s9CEWHNbyVyzMSkbNQYjeV-3asS7mlte3tvGfG1fN3zDZoTjTCduh5RY4upyKky_kjFu-BY/s1600-h/MerryHill_0132.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7R6fhdLABQih8lbQXL2gVCzQr2fw1boqlHjNqH1gFbxhx2o1dnhVZIT8dHO1BCtgrzd2s9CEWHNbyVyzMSkbNQYjeV-3asS7mlte3tvGfG1fN3zDZoTjTCduh5RY4upyKky_kjFu-BY/s400/MerryHill_0132.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329797064956038562" /></a><br /><div>The eyes are the windows to the soul....</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah...pretty darn cliche, huh? lol</div><div>It's interesting, though. I was thinking about it last night, as I was looking at my pictures. I find the pictures that I like the best...the ones that really Move me...the eyes are always the main focal point of the picture.</div><div>Like the one above. The depth of the child is so highlighted by the intensity of the eyes.</div><div>It made me think...ever since I was a teenager...when friends would talk about girls, and...well.. what parts they like "best"....for me it was the eyes. Yeah....my friends would tease me about it. But it was true. Looking back at past girlfriends....they are all so different. But the one thing they have in common is beautiful eyes. </div><div>Actually....if you look at most of my close friends...female OR male...you will find that the thing most of them have in common is VERY intense eyes and VERY intelligent eyes.</div><div>I guess, thinking back, I've always been drawn to people in general that are like that...those people that you say...wow! They have really intense eyes...or wow...you can see all their emotion, or passion in their eyes. Or...they have Kind eyes. Intelligent eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe that's why I tend to like photography's that really show the eyes. Really a part of my photographic style. Ok...thats not to say ALL my pictures are focused around the eyes. That would just be silly. But the ones that move ME, are. The ones that I tend to really go WOW at...</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm curious what other people think....do YOU have that same reaction to the ones with the eyes that I do? Or this picture above just ANOTHER baby picture... or maybe you like it because of the sunglasses. I LOVE the sunglasses, by the way...it totally works in the picture. I just think the Eyes are the most important element, though.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tell me what you think.................</div><div>(ok guys...this is where you stop just READING...and interact..) :)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8771972245267350404.post-85859102727609307772009-04-25T19:59:00.000-07:002009-04-30T12:47:30.917-07:00Graffiti Bridge Model Shoot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGcT5_Lj5z1T8f-jN0PF9Sr5LoA9bh58IDrMCHmTmKp2S3uGUlYhybfBORGfOj4HlYsItoInUpgKBKsGO8ud6Ao-BPiIrFSExtLJJx7_qX5wB7jdBNYYEqvX2t2lQkH5636ybov2FBLk/s1600-h/SShort_0361.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGcT5_Lj5z1T8f-jN0PF9Sr5LoA9bh58IDrMCHmTmKp2S3uGUlYhybfBORGfOj4HlYsItoInUpgKBKsGO8ud6Ao-BPiIrFSExtLJJx7_qX5wB7jdBNYYEqvX2t2lQkH5636ybov2FBLk/s320/SShort_0361.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328830994500270034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2anbLTXXo_GvRTafSBI57QOiuu-7f_0D3VY_rFF9fYmjVjxIZ4f2Cu8wOEl6jyJrFN3dyabgkNf8aGqYgNmvO3dLbnTjcKeLpE9prXucXSmJWvKOrWD2JxwKJ1DO8kzSdmyd4kFFb-M/s1600-h/SShort_0300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2anbLTXXo_GvRTafSBI57QOiuu-7f_0D3VY_rFF9fYmjVjxIZ4f2Cu8wOEl6jyJrFN3dyabgkNf8aGqYgNmvO3dLbnTjcKeLpE9prXucXSmJWvKOrWD2JxwKJ1DO8kzSdmyd4kFFb-M/s320/SShort_0300.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328830833063149362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MtB72KtZGlH1c9OIjjZN3hZaOI0pW9sNPq-862g_OXq8rCWW-J3eLB8H5Kn-wZYHDZdge1ba7Fcyb7qVh5ZJvRlJe-0Z14t7VziqRL6QBKqMJ_QKZxl0NkA7zxDPpBcBn2KDInX_HE0/s1600-h/SShort_0241.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MtB72KtZGlH1c9OIjjZN3hZaOI0pW9sNPq-862g_OXq8rCWW-J3eLB8H5Kn-wZYHDZdge1ba7Fcyb7qVh5ZJvRlJe-0Z14t7VziqRL6QBKqMJ_QKZxl0NkA7zxDPpBcBn2KDInX_HE0/s320/SShort_0241.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328830647831809058" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt74iKgHYDzp2jto0j79CIOLn_gDYb1Q8y478dQf-Xzo1U2FbtyNjNsmYwljEWURg-VFwrv_7zh0Vt40Hb9yLdBuBj9hyphenhyphenLz0JhDgLFs7rudTTp5pxWZ1FKs1oSbRd5V7TW9x-i6cldas/s1600-h/SShort_0259.jpg">a</a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt74iKgHYDzp2jto0j79CIOLn_gDYb1Q8y478dQf-Xzo1U2FbtyNjNsmYwljEWURg-VFwrv_7zh0Vt40Hb9yLdBuBj9hyphenhyphenLz0JhDgLFs7rudTTp5pxWZ1FKs1oSbRd5V7TW9x-i6cldas/s1600-h/SShort_0259.jpg">f</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt74iKgHYDzp2jto0j79CIOLn_gDYb1Q8y478dQf-Xzo1U2FbtyNjNsmYwljEWURg-VFwrv_7zh0Vt40Hb9yLdBuBj9hyphenhyphenLz0JhDgLFs7rudTTp5pxWZ1FKs1oSbRd5V7TW9x-i6cldas/s1600-h/SShort_0259.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt74iKgHYDzp2jto0j79CIOLn_gDYb1Q8y478dQf-Xzo1U2FbtyNjNsmYwljEWURg-VFwrv_7zh0Vt40Hb9yLdBuBj9hyphenhyphenLz0JhDgLFs7rudTTp5pxWZ1FKs1oSbRd5V7TW9x-i6cldas/s320/SShort_0259.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328830442628606626" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Last month I did a photo shoot with up an coming model Shea Short, who is....wait for it...</div><div>16</div><div>Yes...I know....two things you are thinking right now...</div><div>One....she does NOT look 16 to you (part of that is the shooting style)</div><div>Two...SEAN! That's not your Style! lol.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes...those of you who know me, and have seen my work, will tell you that this is a departure from my normal photographic style. Yes, LEIGH....I know what you are saying right now! (insert inside joke here)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway...I was asked to do this shoot Shea to help her build her portfolio. The location is the Graffiti Bridge in Davis (also known as the Stephenson Bridge). It is a very old bridge in the middle of nowhere...that is covered (obviously!) in Graffiti. The effect is really cool. It looks like something out of so many movies I've seen in the past...old concrete bridge, so much graffiti. </div><div>It's fun to walk around and check out the graffiti...read what people wrote. I actually took some shots of just the graffite...who knows, I may do something with that in the futre.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway....while it was fun doing the shoot...I have to admit that just shooting models...well...not as much fun as you would think.</div><div>I LOVE people...and capturing people. DUH! That's why I'm a "LIFESTYLE" photographer, right??</div><div>I guess the over posed stuff...well...I don't know. It's just not the same for me. I love capturing the essence of people in a picture....capturing their soul in motion. So that when people look at the picture later...they are moved by what they see.</div><div>I just don't get that same feeling from the posed shots.</div><div><br /></div><div>That said...we will see what Art School brings....since I know I will have to do more posed shots during school...so I might learn to love it more.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime....BRING on the family portraits, the weddings, the photo shoots of little kids, of couples in love, of seniors at the highlight of their life. Bring me LIFE to photograph.</div><div>That is my passion! :)</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok...enough ramblings of a crazy photographer for now!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sean Thomas Bjers</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh...for those who want to see the rest of the pictures from that shoot that have been finished...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://albums.phanfare.com/8273127/3801598#imageID=67109324">http://albums.phanfare.com/8273127/3801598#imageID=67109324</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sean Bjershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274185275107460874noreply@blogger.com0