Pictures with a story, post yours
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Vince Lupo
Whatever
France236 by Vince.Lupo, on Flickr
While visiting the Notre-Dame Cathedral in Reims, France, I sat on a stone bench across from this little prayer area.
After a couple of minutes, this lady walked up to the little altar. She just stood there, motionless.
Her hair, her dress, her white high heels all seemed to be such a contrast with the rest of the environment.
I took about four shots before she walked away. I never did see her face.
steve kessel
steve kessel
This lady pointing to the photograph on the wall is saying
"That's me, 6 months old, in Cyprus"
bojanfurst
Well-known
Love this thread! Great idea Andrea.
The photo bellow was made on Fair Island in Indian Bay just off the east coast of the main island of Newfoundland. That community was officially resettled in the 1950s and technically it does not exist anymore. Except that it does. The former islanders and their descendants maintain cottages and houses where many of them spend as much time as they can. The photograph (in my mind anyway) is called “A pipefitter and a gaming executive make fish in a resettled community.” What you see here are not two fishermen, although I suspect both of them would be happier if they were fishermen. What you see are two people with roots deep in a community that does not exist any more engaged in an activity that is crucial to their identity, but it is meaningless economically. For me, this is in many ways a quintessential Newfoundland small island photograph.
The photo bellow was made on Fair Island in Indian Bay just off the east coast of the main island of Newfoundland. That community was officially resettled in the 1950s and technically it does not exist anymore. Except that it does. The former islanders and their descendants maintain cottages and houses where many of them spend as much time as they can. The photograph (in my mind anyway) is called “A pipefitter and a gaming executive make fish in a resettled community.” What you see here are not two fishermen, although I suspect both of them would be happier if they were fishermen. What you see are two people with roots deep in a community that does not exist any more engaged in an activity that is crucial to their identity, but it is meaningless economically. For me, this is in many ways a quintessential Newfoundland small island photograph.
Photo_Smith
Well-known
I took the following images of my friend the artist Zacron (famous for the Led Zeppelin Rotator)
They were a hurried affair, one that I was never satisfied with. So I arranged to have another sitting.
Personal illness stopped me from that commitment and later that year Zacron passed on
after a short illness.
I still miss him.
They were a hurried affair, one that I was never satisfied with. So I arranged to have another sitting.
Personal illness stopped me from that commitment and later that year Zacron passed on
after a short illness.
I still miss him.
jippiejee
Well-known
the guitarist
the guitarist
I was 15 years old when I won an essay contest by a shortwave radio station and was invited by SAUK/SABC to travel around South-Africa with them. These were still the apartheid years, and family and school certainly did their part to make me feel guilty about going, but I got permission to skip classes as this was seen as educationally valuable time in the end. My love for travel and photography started then I think. After having seen the cities, we flew up north for further travel with a Volkswagen van to the Kruger national park and Venda.
That's when I shot this young musician who made his own guitar. I loved it, had never heard or seen anything like it before.
the guitarist
I was 15 years old when I won an essay contest by a shortwave radio station and was invited by SAUK/SABC to travel around South-Africa with them. These were still the apartheid years, and family and school certainly did their part to make me feel guilty about going, but I got permission to skip classes as this was seen as educationally valuable time in the end. My love for travel and photography started then I think. After having seen the cities, we flew up north for further travel with a Volkswagen van to the Kruger national park and Venda.
That's when I shot this young musician who made his own guitar. I loved it, had never heard or seen anything like it before.
rwintle
Scientist by day
This is a dreadful photo, but comes with a story that I like. The camera was a plastic mail-order one, similar to a Diana I suppose, which I obtained by saving box tops or something similar. The film seems to have been unperforated, and was developed at home by my father, and scanned by him some 33 years or so later. It's completely un-retouched, in case you couldn't tell. A hidden gem from the drawer of negatives in the parents' basement.
The subject is my "uncle" Mike - not a biological relative. His wife Mary was a schoolfriend of my mother’s. Living in Crawley, just south of London and convenient to Gatwick Airport, we’d see them on every visit to the U.K. No strangers to the outdoors, they visited us in Canada several times, and joined us on camping trips to northern Ontario, and on one occasion all the way to Nova Scotia, starting at the east end of Lake Ontario.
A former Royal Marine deployed in the 1950′s in Southeast Asia, achieving the rank of Major, Mike later became an Officer Commanding his local Marine Cadet detachment. He was also involved with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award program for youth, smoked a pipe, and sported an excellent, military-issue handlebar moustache. Originally from northern England, his accent was thick enough to puzzle my friends. He died in 2009 after a protracted battle with Motor Neuron Disease, several years after Mary passed.
This is the memorable occasion, some time in the late 1970's, when he hauled a sizeable Northern Pike out of Desert Lake, Ontario, Canada, using, I kid you not, a Ronco Pocket Fisherman. What is now the site of my parents' cottage, at the time it was simply a place we went to camp, equipped with nothing more fancy than an outhouse. There wasn't even a dock - we launched the canoe and the sailboat from the large rock Mike's standing on, which of course also doubled as a fishing platform. The day in question, as I recall, was dull and overcast, with choppy waves. Mike had already taken some good-natured ribbing over his fold-out fishing rod, remarkably similar to the modern version, although I recall the handle of his being an unpleasant brown colour. Casting from the shore, where I’d never caught anything bigger than a rather undersized Largemouth Bass, on about his third cast Mike begain jerking the rod as though he’d caught something. I thought he was just joking around – until he hauled that Pike out of the lake, bludgeoning it into submission with a handy piece of driftwood before putting his fingers anywhere near its toothy mouth. It's bigger than it looks - Mike was around six and a half feet tall and as you can see, burly.
In due course, the pike was cooked and eaten, and a bland and bony meal it made too.
I'd thought that this and one other exposure were the only photographic records of this piece of Wintle family lore, but as it turns out there are some rather better-exposed and much sharper ones in my mother's photo album, probably taken with her Spotmatic F - which is now also in my possession.
Mike's Pike by Richard Wintle, on Flickr
The subject is my "uncle" Mike - not a biological relative. His wife Mary was a schoolfriend of my mother’s. Living in Crawley, just south of London and convenient to Gatwick Airport, we’d see them on every visit to the U.K. No strangers to the outdoors, they visited us in Canada several times, and joined us on camping trips to northern Ontario, and on one occasion all the way to Nova Scotia, starting at the east end of Lake Ontario.
A former Royal Marine deployed in the 1950′s in Southeast Asia, achieving the rank of Major, Mike later became an Officer Commanding his local Marine Cadet detachment. He was also involved with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award program for youth, smoked a pipe, and sported an excellent, military-issue handlebar moustache. Originally from northern England, his accent was thick enough to puzzle my friends. He died in 2009 after a protracted battle with Motor Neuron Disease, several years after Mary passed.
This is the memorable occasion, some time in the late 1970's, when he hauled a sizeable Northern Pike out of Desert Lake, Ontario, Canada, using, I kid you not, a Ronco Pocket Fisherman. What is now the site of my parents' cottage, at the time it was simply a place we went to camp, equipped with nothing more fancy than an outhouse. There wasn't even a dock - we launched the canoe and the sailboat from the large rock Mike's standing on, which of course also doubled as a fishing platform. The day in question, as I recall, was dull and overcast, with choppy waves. Mike had already taken some good-natured ribbing over his fold-out fishing rod, remarkably similar to the modern version, although I recall the handle of his being an unpleasant brown colour. Casting from the shore, where I’d never caught anything bigger than a rather undersized Largemouth Bass, on about his third cast Mike begain jerking the rod as though he’d caught something. I thought he was just joking around – until he hauled that Pike out of the lake, bludgeoning it into submission with a handy piece of driftwood before putting his fingers anywhere near its toothy mouth. It's bigger than it looks - Mike was around six and a half feet tall and as you can see, burly.
In due course, the pike was cooked and eaten, and a bland and bony meal it made too.
I'd thought that this and one other exposure were the only photographic records of this piece of Wintle family lore, but as it turns out there are some rather better-exposed and much sharper ones in my mother's photo album, probably taken with her Spotmatic F - which is now also in my possession.
Mike's Pike by Richard Wintle, on Flickr
daveleo
what?
Zeke died Aug.28.2001. He was a wonderful, fantastic cat; a true "alpha-male" and he loved people and was the 7th smartest person I ever met.
We got him, as a kitten, at an animal shelter in (I think) 1993. It was one of those scenes from the Hallmark channel on TV. He was the one kitten left of a litter, and alone in a cage. Every time I walked by the cage to look the cats over, Zeke would reach his paw through the bars, meow meow and try to grab me. If I looked at him, he would stick his face right out there and say "You're not going to leave me here, are you?"
At home, he never left me alone. At night, he jumped on the bed, I'd pull the sheet over my head and he would sit on my chest and paw at the sheet until I let him slip under it to sleep with us.
In 1996 or 7, Zeke was diagnosed with kidney failure (incurable, eventually terminal). The vet said he could come home if we could "give him his medicine at home". I said "sure". Then she pulled out the bags of Lactated Ringer's solution, plastic tubing and a box of hyperdermic needles . . . I had to sit down ! . . . . "What do you expect me to do with those needles?" . . . "You have to inject this solution into him twice a day every day for the rest of his life. When you stop doing that, he will die. Or, the other option is that we can put him down now."
Well, we gave Zeke his fluids for the next five years; he was much better at it than I was. In the end it was a very very traumatic event for me every day, and it pained me enormously to continue injecting him. I think because I could tell it was over, why make him suffer more.
When the day came, I cried like a baby.
rodt16s
Well-known
I use to travel regularly to a factory in Gansu province.
You can fly to the city now, but at this time it was either a 5hr drive to/from Lanzhou or 5hr train journey to Xian.
This photo was taken a few days before Chinese New Year,
I was sharing a hard sleeper compartment with a family travelling home for the holiday.
They had already been on the train for 17hrs and had a similar amount to go.
I was on the top bunk and the family Father was opposite looking longingly for home.
Train Journey by Redt16s, on Flickr
You can fly to the city now, but at this time it was either a 5hr drive to/from Lanzhou or 5hr train journey to Xian.
This photo was taken a few days before Chinese New Year,
I was sharing a hard sleeper compartment with a family travelling home for the holiday.
They had already been on the train for 17hrs and had a similar amount to go.
I was on the top bunk and the family Father was opposite looking longingly for home.
Train Journey by Redt16s, on Flickr
stompyq
Well-known
I met this lady last year when I was in Sri Lanka. I was on a trek to adams peak and on the decent we passed through some tea estates. I saw this lady and wanted to make a portrait. I asked my friend who speaks tamil fluently (I don't) to communicate with her. She said "ok take my picture I really don't know why though. I used to be a lot prettier in my younger days. Not so much now". Turns out shes well in to her 90's and still works plucking tea. She had just dropped off a load of tea leaves that she had plucked that morning and was on her way home when I ran in to her. Let me just say that she was in amazing shape for some one of such advanced years.
I know it's not much but this one is probably one of my favorite portraits from last year. Just wish I had my rolliflex or pentax with b&w film instead of my digi.
35photo
Well-known
35photo
Well-known
stompyq
Well-known
Zeke died Aug.28.2001. He was a wonderful, fantastic cat; a true "alpha-male" and he loved people and was the 7th smartest person I ever met.
We got him, as a kitten, at an animal shelter in (I think) 1993. It was one of those scenes from the Hallmark channel on TV. He was the one kitten left of a litter, and alone in a cage. Every time I walked by the cage to look the cats over, Zeke would reach his paw through the bars, meow meow and try to grab me. If I looked at him, he would stick his face right out there and say "You're not going to leave me here, are you?"
At home, he never left me alone. At night, he jumped on the bed, I'd pull the sheet over my head and he would sit on my chest and paw at the sheet until I let him slip under it to sleep with us.
In 1996 or 7, Zeke was diagnosed with kidney failure (incurable, eventually terminal). The vet said he could come home if we could "give him his medicine at home". I said "sure". Then she pulled out the bags of Lactated Ringer's solution, plastic tubing and a box of hyperdermic needles . . . I had to sit down ! . . . . "What do you expect me to do with those needles?" . . . "You have to inject this solution into him twice a day every day for the rest of his life. When you stop doing that, he will die. Or, the other option is that we can put him down now."
Well, we gave Zeke his fluids for the next five years; he was much better at it than I was. In the end it was a very very traumatic event for me every day, and it pained me enormously to continue injecting him. I think because I could tell it was over, why make him suffer more.
When the day came, I cried like a baby.
Thank you far sharing.. Wonderful story and image
lawrence
Veteran
Charles Mingus at the Concorde Club
Charles Mingus at the Concorde Club
Back in the early 1970s I was studying photography in Bournemouth. A great friend of mine was a Portuguese guy named Antonio and one of my musical heroes was the jazz musician Charles Mingus. One day I saw in the local paper -- the Bournemouth Echo, where Bill Bryson used to work -- that Mingus was playing at The Concorde club in Southampton and suggested to Antonio that we catch the show.
Many famous jazz musicians have played The Concorde, reason being that in the old days they'd catch a liner from Southampton back to New York so it made a convenient stop on the last night of a tour. Anyway, imagine our surprise when we turn up and there is the legendary Mingus trio and about a dozen people in the audience. Being a jazz club the seating is informal and you can get up any time to go the bar or just to take a closer look at the musicians and there is the great Mingus standing about six feet away!
Anyway I have with me my trusty SRT101 loaded with Kodak Recording film but the only lighting is a single red bulb pretty much directly above Mingus. 'You know' says Antonio ' there's just no way you'll get a photograph in this light'.
Charles Mingus at the Concorde Club
Back in the early 1970s I was studying photography in Bournemouth. A great friend of mine was a Portuguese guy named Antonio and one of my musical heroes was the jazz musician Charles Mingus. One day I saw in the local paper -- the Bournemouth Echo, where Bill Bryson used to work -- that Mingus was playing at The Concorde club in Southampton and suggested to Antonio that we catch the show.
Many famous jazz musicians have played The Concorde, reason being that in the old days they'd catch a liner from Southampton back to New York so it made a convenient stop on the last night of a tour. Anyway, imagine our surprise when we turn up and there is the legendary Mingus trio and about a dozen people in the audience. Being a jazz club the seating is informal and you can get up any time to go the bar or just to take a closer look at the musicians and there is the great Mingus standing about six feet away!
Anyway I have with me my trusty SRT101 loaded with Kodak Recording film but the only lighting is a single red bulb pretty much directly above Mingus. 'You know' says Antonio ' there's just no way you'll get a photograph in this light'.
Black
Photographer.
I'm intrigued. What's the story?
Andrea Taurisano
il cimento
I've been away for a couple of days, but see now that this thread developed very nicely. I've enjoyed each and every story shared so far.
--s
Well-known
Omaha Beach
Omaha Beach
In 2005 my younger son and I were touring the north of France, Brittany and Normandy. We also visited Omaha Beach, the place where Capa took his famous invasion pics. It was late summer, the beach was deserted from the summer bathing folks, it was lonely and impressive. It was hard to believe that in ´44 there was so much fierce fighting and killing on that beach.
Thinking of Capa, I added some blur......
Leica MP, Summicron 35, HP5+
Omaha Beach
In 2005 my younger son and I were touring the north of France, Brittany and Normandy. We also visited Omaha Beach, the place where Capa took his famous invasion pics. It was late summer, the beach was deserted from the summer bathing folks, it was lonely and impressive. It was hard to believe that in ´44 there was so much fierce fighting and killing on that beach.
Thinking of Capa, I added some blur......
Leica MP, Summicron 35, HP5+
skopar steve
Well-known
Nate was a machinist fellow worker at a machine shop. He lost his eye due to cancer. Since the crap insurance we had did not cover a proper prosthetic, his fellow workers including the company owner, pitched in and procured a proper prosthetic.
se
se
sailor
Well-known
This is Tommy, a regular at Shawfield Greyhound Stadium in Glasgow and one of the most interesting men I have ever met.
He was one of life's real eccentrics. He had an vast knowledge of greyhound racing stretching back many years, being able rhyme off the results of particular races from years back. I used to think he was making it up as neither I nor anyone else knew enough to contradict him but I checked out some of his pronouncements on the internet and he was always right.
He was known as Farmfoods Tommy or Tommy the Timer. Farmfoods Tommy came about because he carried around years worth of old greyhound cards in a Farmfoods carrier bag. Tommy the Timer came about because he timed all the races himself because he believed the racing office was corrupt and altered the times to suit themselves. I often thought he had a point.
His knowledge extended well beyond greyhound racing. I can hardly think of a single topic that he couldn't add a pertinent comment to. I used to think that I had a decent general knowledge but Tommy was something else. He was an avid reader and what he used to do was go to the remaindered bookshops and but the books when they were further reduced to about 25p - no matter what the subject! I remember him telling me about the trade in ice between North America and India - just one of the many subjects he was expert in and I had never heard of.
Every night when I went to the greyhound racing he would greet me in a particularly offensive manner but no offense was ever taken. He was not shy at telling people how clever he was at race betting having once won a competition for Britain's top tipster. I remember he was interviewed by a reporter from a national newspaper doing a feature on the track. The reporter introduced him as one of the best judges of greyhound and horse racing in Scotland "even if he does say so himself!"
I don't know if Tommy is still around as I have not been to the track for years but I like to think he is still bending someone's ear with his tales. This was a quick snap taken one night when I had the camera with me to take photos of the winning dogs.
Tommy the Timer by Elmer Duck, on Flickr
He was one of life's real eccentrics. He had an vast knowledge of greyhound racing stretching back many years, being able rhyme off the results of particular races from years back. I used to think he was making it up as neither I nor anyone else knew enough to contradict him but I checked out some of his pronouncements on the internet and he was always right.
He was known as Farmfoods Tommy or Tommy the Timer. Farmfoods Tommy came about because he carried around years worth of old greyhound cards in a Farmfoods carrier bag. Tommy the Timer came about because he timed all the races himself because he believed the racing office was corrupt and altered the times to suit themselves. I often thought he had a point.
His knowledge extended well beyond greyhound racing. I can hardly think of a single topic that he couldn't add a pertinent comment to. I used to think that I had a decent general knowledge but Tommy was something else. He was an avid reader and what he used to do was go to the remaindered bookshops and but the books when they were further reduced to about 25p - no matter what the subject! I remember him telling me about the trade in ice between North America and India - just one of the many subjects he was expert in and I had never heard of.
Every night when I went to the greyhound racing he would greet me in a particularly offensive manner but no offense was ever taken. He was not shy at telling people how clever he was at race betting having once won a competition for Britain's top tipster. I remember he was interviewed by a reporter from a national newspaper doing a feature on the track. The reporter introduced him as one of the best judges of greyhound and horse racing in Scotland "even if he does say so himself!"
I don't know if Tommy is still around as I have not been to the track for years but I like to think he is still bending someone's ear with his tales. This was a quick snap taken one night when I had the camera with me to take photos of the winning dogs.
Tommy the Timer by Elmer Duck, on Flickr
Brian Atherton
Well-known
This is a wonderful, enlightening, and, at times, very moving thread.
I record my thanks to the original poster.
Thank you.
I record my thanks to the original poster.
Thank you.
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