Come Join Me at the Art of Photography Show!

You are invited!

An Evening With Photographer John Mireles

When: Thursday October 24th  7:00 pm - 8:30 pm
Where: San Diego Art Institute, in Balboa Park

Cost: Free

An Evening With Photographer John Mireles
Join photographer John Mireles as he shares work from his intrusive style of documentary photography. Using the motto of "If you're photos aren't good enough, you're not close enough" as his starting point, John creates viscerally intimate stories of his subjects and the places they inhabit. He'll be sharing images and stories from two of his ongoing personal projects: "The Bakken" documents the workers and environment of the oil fields of North Dakota. His "Life of the Party" series captures the lewd, crude and sometimes nude behavior of Americans celebrating under the influence of alcohol.
 

For directions to the San Diego Art Institute in Balboa Park click here.

Facebook Event Page: https://www.facebook.com/events/591632094229719/

For more information, contact the Producer: Steven Churchill
Email: steven@artofphotographyshow.com
Phone: 619-825-5575

 Send to a friend! 

Image Accepted! - Art of Photography Show

Today I received word that one of the images from my Life of the Party series made it into the Art of Photography show here in San Diego. Curated by Julia Dolan from the Portland Art Museum, the show receives 12,000 submissions and accepts 200 for presentation.

Here's the selected image:

Memorial Day, Lake Havasu 2012

The Widow's Mite

In a sense, I’ve been schooled. It’s not easy to come into an oil town and get the sort of access that I’d like. As much as I’d like to walk onto a drilling site and start shooting photos of guys working hard, that’s just not going to happen. I tried starting at the top but, in cold-calling a couple of drilling companies, “not interested” and “this conversation is over” were the highlights of my efforts.

I have managed to secure some other contacts so things are moving forward – though not at the pace I’d like. Instead of focusing on that, I’d like to share another experience that I didn’t think too much of at the time, but in retrospect was one of those moments that only could happen out here on the Bakken Oil fields.

Walking back to the van after taking photos of a passing train, a man in a car pulled up. “Which way to Williston?” he asked.” That was an easy answer as it was just a mile or two down the road. Seeing my camera, he asked if I was a professional photographer. “Yes I am” I answered in my well-practiced drawl.

Eager to talk, he swiftly exited his car and began asking questions and telling us about his life. He’d been in his car for days – traveling from 1,800 miles from his home in Louisiana, his road atlas as his guide and only companion. From his excitement in speaking with us, it was obvious that he was overjoyed to connect and share with someone, anyone – and that just happened to be us, two strangers who gave him directions.

Like every other newcomer, he came in search of work. He wore a neat collared shirt.  Recently dry cleaned shirts hung in the back of his car – ready for him to proudly wear at his hoped for new job. Though I hated to squelch his enthusiasm, I gently let him know that in this town, t-shirts and jeans are the standard uniform. No matter. He lifted his pant leg to show us his duct taped shoe that one of his two labradors had chewed on. (He left his wife at home, but it was the dogs that he missed most.)

Because the sun was not far off from setting and I had a photographic agenda to attend to,  I let him know that we had to move on. That didn’t stop him; he asked if we drank coffee. I said no, Tulsi said yes. He opened his trunk and offered us a small vat of Folgers coffee. What were going to do with that, neither of us knew. What we did know was that refusing his kindness was not an option. Finally, we wished him well and drove off.

Sitting here the day after and reflecting on this ten minute connection, I’m truly moved by this man. From his car and his clothes, it’s clear that he had some well-paying job in the past. But the fact that he’s come to Williston means that it’s over and this his last chance. The money is all gone and hope following soon after. All that he’s got is packed in his small sedan – his likely home for the next days or even weeks. Yet, like the Biblical widow who donated her two coins to the temple, this man offered to us all that he had to share.

Though I can’t remember your name – was it Dave or Tom? – thanks for the coffee. May your story be one of success.

Tales of Birth and Rebirth

Back in the days when the American West was wild and untamed, young men would traverse the country to prove themselves and older men would undertake the journey to reinvent themselves. The lure of a new life and better opportunities drew men to cross the continent into unknown territory. In North Dakota, the promise and the lure of the American West live on.

Young men come here to kickstart their lives while older men come to begin anew. And, just like in the days of yore, the women either remain at home or follow in support. Instead of homesteading in log cabins and traveling in covered wagons, the modern day pioneers come by pickup and find lodging in all manner of trailer – from tiny things barely larger than a walk-in closet to monstrous fifth wheel trailers that are larger than my first apartment.

Regardless of what size trailer someone may inhabit, everyone has a story to tell. Everyone. They share it with the willingness and ease of a policeman giving directions to an old lady. Some almost wear it on their shirt like a badge of honor.

There was Scott from Maine who had a thriving business until the economic crash. He managed to hang on for a few years until he finally had no choice but to close up shop and give up everything he’d worked so hard for. He found rebirth in North Dakota as a drilling rig worker.

Then there’s 23 year old Kami with her tales of sex abuse, a mean ex-husband, cancer of the pituitary glands, and relentless physical abuse from her foster parent that lead to her present bouts of epilepsy. Hard work is her savior and steadying hand.

Or twenty something Chad from Northern Michigan where good jobs are as scarce as the trees are plentiful. Truck driving in North Dakota was his escape from an unappetizing future of $10 per hour jobs.

These guys are tough. Hard workers. No messing around here. One wrong move on an oil rig and lives are lost. At the end of the night, the guys take taxi’s home from the bar because a DUI will mean the end of their time here. Pot smoking is verboten with all of the drug testing. More than that though,  these guys are here to work. This isn’t summer camp; this is about buckling down and making money so that when the time is right, they can move up or out.

Still, there’s an underlying vulnerability here that, perhaps because I’m a photographer whose method and goal is to connect, is shared so readily. Whatever the reason, I’ve learned so much here that I can’t help be touched and changed. I came here expecting a wild west of testosterone gone rampant. What I have found instead is a story much more tender and inspiring.

Home on the Plains

Like every other new arrival to Williston, I’ve come here to seek my fortune. To be sure few come here with an eye to get rich quick. Instead, it’s with the hope to draw a steady paycheck and live out the American dream of bettering one’s place in life. Though the fortune I seek comes in the form of photos, not an immediate paycheck, I feel a kinship with all the other migrant souls who have gathered here.

That sense of kinship is not necessarily reciprocal however. Upon rolling into town yesterday, our first thoughts were to find a place to park my camper van for the coming nights. There’s not much by way of campgrounds in this town to start with and a couple of calls revealed that they were full. What we didn’t know is that every campsite in every campground is spoken for either by full-time residents or those who leave for the Winter but hang onto it so as not to lose it come Springtime.

Our first stop was the Buffalo Springs campground a couple of miles north of town. Although they’d claimed they were full when we called, I figured we should check it out all the same. In driving through, we discovered a small village of fifth wheel trailers and their long term inhabitants. After connecting with a few friendly folk, we continued our way down the road, but not before I secured my first photos of the trip.

A couple of miles later, we pulled into a much larger and even more bereft of landscaping trailer-filled parking lot. Tulsi, my companion and one-woman support crew, checked in with the office to see if there might be a spot for us road weary travelers. No luck.

As we stood outside our parked van and I snapped photos of the site’s playground, Bill, the trailer park manager, came out to let us know that we needed to move on since my van sat in reserved spot, though its occupant had yet to return from his winter hiatus. Bill’s underlying message though came through loud and clear, “You liberals from California aren’t welcome here.” My long hair and California license plate told him all he needed to know about us.

That was fine by me, but Bill wasn’t done with us yet so the lecture carried on. After a little bit of cajoling and passionate discourse with him about my desire to document the lives and work of the oil field’s men and women, he flipped course and offered to let us stay for a couple of days – no charge.

But my moments of confrontation weren’t over. Just as my conversation with Bill trailed off, two obviously angry and itching for a fight women demanded to know what I was doing taking pictures of their children. Knowing that I wasn’t going to win any arguments with angrily protective momma bears, I showed them the photos and explained the goals of my visit. By the time we finished talking, all was well and my request to photograph one of the women’s family was accepted, though not without the usual grudging ode to female vanity.

Later that night, we traipsed off in search of a bar. Meeting people for me is the key and I figured that there’s no better place than late night over a beer. Walking into Champs Bar with my Nikon D3s over my shoulder, the bartender immediately instructed me, “No photos.” No problem.

On my way out, a burly, menacing looking guy asked what I was doing with the camera. Last call was over and it was the end of the night – just about fighting time. My first thought was this guy is looking to cause some trouble. I suppose he could have been but in the end, we talked about my project and life in the oil fields. Before I drove off in to return to my new, temporary home in the plains of North Dakota, I photographed him in the headlights of my camper van.

After returning to the driver’s seat, he approached my window where this tough character continued the conversation. He asked me to hold out my index finger. Wrapping his burly fingers around my vulnerable digit, he pulled my hand to his face where he pushed my finger to his cheek. There I felt the smashed bones of his cheekbone as he explained that’s where he’d been shot back at home in the unforgiving streets of the Bronx.

Just like in the days of old, a new life awaits in the American West.

In the American West

Years ago, I had the opportunity to take a week long workshop with renowned celebrity and portrait photographer Mark Seliger. He’d been cajoled and ultimately convinced by a friend to teach at the Santa Fe Workshops in New Mexico. Teaching proved not to be his thing so, as far I know, that workshop proved to be his first and last.

No matter. We hit it off okay and, like a skilled surfer knowing which swells to catch, I managed to be in the right spot at the right time whenever he went off on some unscripted and impromptu teaching exercise. It was in one of those moments that, in retrospect, changed me profoundly. In the midst of a torpid afternoon where motivation waned in the desert heat, he asked if I wanted to go into town with him to check out some stuff. How could I say no?

Off we scampered to some upscale peddler of southwestern objet de art situated in the heart of old Santa Fe. At the time I was a struggling and quite poor photographer; I vividly remember him just pointing at various furnishings and decorative antiques typical of a southwestern boutique and asking if they could be wrapped up and shipped to New York. That’s how people with money do it I thought.

In the midst of his treasure hunt, he came across a book, grabbed it from the shelf and thrust it into my hands. “Buy this” he matter-of-factly commanded. When Mark Seliger tells you to buy a book, you buy it regardless of how much, or rather how little, cash you have on hand. So I forked over the 50 or so bucks for this plastic sleeved, used 11×14 book of black and white photography.

That book, which I have to this day and will own until the last breath passes through my dying lips, was Richard Avedon’s magnificent book, “In the American West.” Immediately I fell in love with the large format portraits of gritty characters from the small towns and hard-scrabble junctions throughout the western US. His style of direct, simple portraits that connect viewer to subject spoke to my own desire to connect. Without question, Avedon’s influence has shaped the development of my own style over the many years since.

In fact, it’s the reason why  today, as I write these words, I find myself in the passenger seat of my trusty 1988 Ford camper van as I head north along the 15 freeway, my home of San Diego hundreds of miles away in the rear view mirror. A small arsenal of cameras and photo equipment fills every nook not occupied by food or clothes. My destination, the town of Williston North Dakota, is still a couple of days driving ahead. In this unlikely destination lies my own “In the American West:” My opportunity to create a body of work in the spirit of the master and leave my own imprint upon the world.

Williston, for those who may not know, is the center of a an oil boom taking place in North Dakota. Though most regions over the past five years have shed jobs faster and further than a streaker can drop his pants, the oil drilling fields of North Dakota have created more jobs than there are men available to fill them. The result is a migration of fortune seekers to a region that’s become the embodiment of a modern day wild west. A black gold rush town where men work hard, rogues cause trouble, and the women are scarce – except for the prostitutes who are all too easy to find.

Well, so I’ve heard anyhow. I’m about to find out.

A Surprise Engagement

It’s been years since I photographed the Gay Pride parade in San Diego. Usually I have a wedding that weekend so it just hasn’t fit into my schedule. This year, I happened to be free so I pedaled my bike on over the parade route and started snapping away.

Without a doubt, the most anticipated moment of the parade was when the soldiers in uniform walked the route. Normally, soldiers are not allowed to parade in uniform unless they have permission, but, because of the heavy military presence in San Diego (we have three aircraft carriers home ported here, a submarine base and two Marine bases) and the fact that gays can now legally serve in the military, the powers that be issued an announcement a couple of days prior that soldiers could attend the parade in uniform.

The fact that our fighting men and women would be in uniform at a gay pride event was history enough but then this man walked into my camera’s view. I didn’t realize it that time, but he was on a mission. Notice the little box he’s holding in his right hand.

After he passed me, I turned around to find this scene.

There in front of hundreds of people, this sailor proposed to his obviously shocked boyfriend. Before I knew it, I found myself swept up in one of the most emotionally powerful experiences of my life. Yes, here was one person proposing marriage (though not yet legal in California) which is a significant and emotional moment to be sure. But against the background of all the civil rights arguments and the fact that, had this man dropped to one knee a year ago, he would have been expelled from the military, the sight literally brought tears to my eyes.

It all happened so fast and without warning. I was lucky to have been in the right place at the right time. After it was all over, everyone cheered and the parade continued. My immediate thought was that I’m proud to be an American. I’m proud to live in a country where people can accept each other based upon the intrinsic value of human dignity. Where people are allowed to be different from the norm. Where love can express itself free from the constraints of bigotry and religion.

In the photo above, you can see one of the soon-to-be grooms checking out his ring. After they passed me, I let my camera drop and knew that before too long, people would look at my photos and wonder what the big deal was all about. Witnessing his little slice of history made ever more resolute my faith in the fact that this moment will come and in my hope that it comes soon.

John Mireles