Menswear Dog, aka Bodhi, has become the star of New York fashion week thanks to a blog featuring the shiba inu in a range of dapper outfits from a biker jacket to a flat cap and braces. His owners – David Fung, 29, a graphic designer, and Yena Kim, 26 – now have a book deal showcasing Bodhi’s best looks.
Move over David Gandy, there’s a new dog in town! Here is Bodhi, a shiba inu who lives in New York, and the face (or should that be snout?) of fashion blog Menswear Dog. Bodhi, or possibly his stylists, Dave Fung and Yena Kim, a fashion designer and graphic designer respectively, clearly knows how to work a look. He seems to have a predilection for wide lapels – check out the shawl cardigan or the nonchalant way he’s wearing his blazer – perhaps to give him a bit more room for movement when chasing other dogs. Which is not to say that he’s casual in his approach. He is very much at the smart end of the menswear spectrum, with a slightly fastidious penchant for tie pins and button-down collars.
Strangely, he seems, in the words of Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model, to know how “to work his angles”, adjusting his facial expression to suit each look: an erudite profile shot for the slightly professorial cardi, a cockier, open-jawed look for the randier open-collar and-tie combo.
Some fashion detective work suggests that Bodhi’s influences could lie inWes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr Fox or in Berluti’s autumn/winter 2013show, in which looks were displayed on mannequins with animal heads. Bodhi looks healthy and well-loved. Let’s hope he’s happy with his life as a model.
James Nachtwey happened to be in New York the morning of 9/11 and made his way to Ground Zero. Ten years ago, TIME published Nachtwey’s extraordinary pictures from the day, but he had not revisited those 27 rolls of film since. A few weeks ago, we had Nachtwey in the office, poring over his contact sheets, reliving the events of that Tuesday. Here, he shares his edit of those photographs, some previously unpublished (slides: 1, 5, 8, 9, 11, 14, 16), with TIME and spoke with writer David Levi Strauss about the work.
James Nachtwey awoke early on September 11, 2001, having flown in from France late the night before. It was unusual for him to be in the city at that time, when he would normally be on assignment elsewhere in the world, documenting conflicts. He took his morning coffee to the east side of his Water Street loft, and looked out across the East River to the Brooklyn Bridge. He remembers that the sky was the bluest and clearest he’d seen in a long time, a condition pilots call “severe clear.” The bridge was lit from behind, with the sun glinting off the surface of the water. Nachtwey glanced down, and noticed some people standing on an adjacent roof, looking west and pointing toward the sky. He crossed the room to the windows on the other side of the loft and saw the north tower of the World Trade Center in flames. A few minutes later, the second plane hit the south tower. Nachtwey, the greatest war photographer of our time, knew instantly that this was an act of war. He packed up his cameras, loaded all the film he had, and ran toward the burning towers.
As he had done so many times before, he was running toward something that everyone else, except for the other first-responders, was running away from. He was going to do his job: to get to the spot and document what was happening. But this time it was different. This time it was happening in his own backyard. “I’ve always gone away, and been involved in other people’s tragedies and dangerous situations, and coming back to America was always a refuge. But now the war had reached us, and I think we became part of the world at that point in a way that we hadn’t been before. Maybe it was a long time in coming, but it’s happened now, and nothing will ever be the same.”
The photographs that Nachtwey took that day, over the next twelve hours, are some of the most iconic images of 9/11: the south tower collapsing behind the cross atop the Church of Saint Peter on Church Street and Barclay; ghostly figures coated in white dust emerging from the smoke; three firemen working around their leader, on his knees, bareheaded, looking back to see the flames sweeping toward them; and the twisted, otherworldly ruins of 1 World Trade Center, looking like the “set of a silent film of the apocalypse.”
At 10:29 a.m., Nachtwey heard “what sounded like a waterfall in the sky,” and looked up to see the north tower coming right down on top of him. “I understood instantly that I had about five seconds to live, and that my chances of surviving this were very slim. It was actually a very beautiful sight, with the smoke and the metal and the paper against the blue sky. It was visually stunning, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. But it was going to kill me, and there was no time to take a picture.” He quickly scanned the area, spied the open door of a hotel across the street (the Millennium Hotel) and lunged toward it. Inside, he dove into an open elevator just as everything went black. “You couldn’t see a thing. I might have been dead, except that I was suffocating, so I knew I must be alive.” He called out to see if there was anyone injured around him who needed help, and then began inching forward in the darkness. After awhile, he saw pinpoints of light that turned out to be the blinking lights of abandoned police vehicles. “Then I knew I was outside, and I realized, well, I must not be buried under the wreckage if I’m outside.” He instinctively headed north and eventually came out into the light. Then he turned around and went back to Ground Zero.
“Itwas, well, what can I say? It was beyond belief. Everything was covered in that white dust, with giant pieces of metal lying around, and the buildings crushed beneath it. There wasn’t much the firemen could do, but they were still trying, searching and calling out for people. I mean it was just solid wreckage. It was so unbelievable that I guess you just had to rely on what you normally do, and just keep doing your job. And the firemen and police were there, they were doing their job, they were professional. I think they understood they’d lost a lot of their comrades, but they were holding that in pretty good. For myself, I remember trying to be a photographer and how important that seemed. It was the only thing I could do. It was my simple task.”
One of the things that made 9/11 different from many of the battlefields where Nachtwey has worked for the past 30 years was that he wasn’t seeing the bodies of the dead. “The absence of bodies put your heart in your throat, understanding how great the loss must be. There was no one to rescue, no one to treat. They were all underneath the wreckage, and they were all dead.”
Nachtwey spent the rest of the day at Ground Zero, doing his job. He had brought 28 rolls of film, and gave one precious roll away to a fellow photographer. Ten years ago, Nachtwey had not yet switched over to digital, so there are 27 contact sheets from September 11th. Fourteen of Nachtwey’s images that were posted on Time.com had 2 million page views on that first day.
James Nachtwey for TIME
On August 21, 2011, Nachtwey looked at his contact sheets from 9/11 for the first time in ten years, and it unleashed a torrent of memories. “I was surprised at how raw I still felt about that day. I realized I’d buried it and wanted to keep it buried. There must be plenty of reasons why, but they’re mostly unarticulated, and maybe they always will be. The sheer magnitude of it, the unreality, the horror, the futility, the insane, evil brilliance of the attack and the plain fact that it succeeded, the ways in which it changed the world, an overwhelming, unbearable sense of loss, because photography is a form of memory, a physical manifestation of it, and some memories want to be locked away, and I was unlocking them.”
Like all of the documentary photographers I know, Jim Nachtwey has an unshakeable belief in the power of images, and that there is a real social value in people being able to see what happened. “What sustains me is the overall value in communicating. People need to know and they need to understand in a human way. Photography is a language, with its own limitations and strengths, but these are my tools, so I have to try and use them well. I want my pictures to be powerful and eloquent. I want to reach people on a deep level. Because I’m presenting my images to a mass audience, I have to have faith that people care about things. People are innately generous, and if they have a channel for their generosity, they’ll respond. People know when something unacceptable is going on, and they want to see it change. I think that’s the basis of communication. Mass awareness is one element of change, but it has to be combined with political will.”
“In the case of 9/11, the fact that it was wrong and that it was an atrocity was obvious—it didn’t take me to prove it. All I could do was document it to the best of my ability. I think a lot of times, my pictures can actually change people’s minds, and push the process that needs to happen in a certain direction. But in this case it was going to happen with or without me. Unfortunately, the Bush administration used the emotional power of the images of 9/11, including mine, to justify and gather support for an ill-conceived invasion of Iraq, a country that had absolutely no connection to the attack on 9/11. So things get manipulated in all kinds of ways. But I really did feel the personal anger about 9/11. This was an attack on my country, my city, my neighborhood.”
Interview by David Levi Strauss
While revisiting his archive, Nachtwey came across a photograph he made in 1971, when he was teaching himself photography, that eerily foreshadows the photos he made on 9/11.
To visit TIME’s Beyond 9/11: A Portrait of Resilience, a project that chronicles 9/11 and its aftermath, click here.
THE FOTOVISURA ANNUAL:
A NIGHT PROJECTION
Sunday, September 22 – 7.30PM
Featuring Andrea Gjestvang, Sara Naomi Lewkowicz,
Poulomi Basu, Jashim Salam, Elizabeth D. Herman,
Karolina Jonderko, Christopher Gregory , Jenn Ackerman,
Fabian Weiss, Emer Gillespie, Nicolas Janowski,
Alejandro Olivares, Alan Charlesworth, Diana Markosian,
Aaron Vincent Elkaim, Florian Müller, Kiana Hayeri
Curated by Sam Barzilay and Graham Letorney
Presented by The FotoVisura Pavilion
The FotoVisura Annual seeks to showcase outstanding personal projects by photographers worldwide—who also demonstrate the characteristics of leadership, dedication, commitment and interest in taking action by using their images to bring about awareness to a specific cause or situation in today’s world. Each project is the result of individual voices resonating worldwide. This projection celebrates emerging leaders in photography, who are part of the FotoVisura International community.
FotoVisura inc. is a creative firm dedicated to publishing, production, design, consultations, and online media. Sponsored by the Viso Lizardi family, FV Inc. launched The FotoVisura Pavilion in 2009—a physical space dedicated to exhibitions and panel discussions on photography worldwide.
For 11 years, Robin Schwartz had been photographing her daughter, whom she calls her muse. But in February, Schwartz realized that her daughter had grown into a teenager — and one that no longer wanted to play dress up or serve as a portrait model. Schwartz knew it was time to work on another project, and she found that new photographic world at a party hosted by another photographer, Mary Ellen Mark. There, the photographer saw jeweled gowns created for dogs by Anthony Rubio, a designer who commands up to $600 for custom outfits for fashion-forward canines (and their owners). Mesmerized by the colorful and embellished creations, which often involve pearls, crystals or floral pieces, Schwartz knew she had discovered her new subject matter.
“This is a world where it’s acceptable to dote on and play with your dogs, be extravagant, charitable and eccentric — I wanted in,” she says. “With my daughter growing up, I was getting sad about having an empty nest, and having a dog is like having a baby. I was enamored.”
For the last four months, Schwartz has attended various canine charity events, capturing the fashionable pups and their equally eccentric owners. Schwartz quickly learned that the dog couture world is, like many other social circles, a nuanced and complicated bunch, and balancing the egos of dog owners became as important as camera angle and composition to getting a great shot.
She’s also documented the design process of Rubio, who started making dog costumes after being called to help rescue a badly abused Chihuahua that had been tied to a fence and kicked violently. “After a visit to a vet and being told that he might not live another year due to injuries, I decided to take him, care for him and ultimately rehabilitate him,” Rubio says. “I started dressing him because he was always trembling, and with time, he became quite affectionate… The word got out and I was asked to design for other dogs and the rest is history.”
Schwartz is saying goodbye — at least for now — to the canine couture world as she plans to road trip across the country with her daughter to take portraits for her forthcoming book with Aperture called Amelia and The Animals Photographs. “What I’ve learned from this project is that every group is socially complicated, that people can be pretty needy too and that I prefer animals — except for my daughter, Amelia,” Schwartz says.
Robin Schwartz is a photographer based in New Jersey. She is an Assistant Professor in Photography at William Paterson University.
The longer that photojournalist Michael Kamber spent covering the war in Iraq, the more frustrated he became. His position on the frontline meant he and his colleagues were closer to the war than anyone, other than the soldiers and Iraqi civilians, yet the photos in the Western media didn’t reflect what he saw happening. “They look like sports pictures to me. It looks like a quarterback limping off the field, being helped by his buddy,” he says. “It’s not what these wars look like.”
With his commitment to accurate reporting shortchanged by what he saw as censorship, Kamber began working on Photojournalists On War: The Untold Stories From Iraq in 2008. The book is a compilation of interviews with 39 photojournalists from around the world, accompanied by some of their most poignant and definitive photos. The aim of the book, which will be released on 15 May in the US and later this year in the UK, is to tell the uncensored story to the general public, an audience that hasn’t been privy to much of what went on there.
The photographs in the book are at once stunning and arrestingly graphic. In one shot, by Eros Hoagland, the severed head of a suicide bomber lies in the middle of the frame, surrounded by the crumpled bodies of doves. Other images show the bodies of American contractors strung from a bridge across the Euphrates, children maimed and bleeding, or grieving and covered in the blood of their family members. Until now, many of these images had never reached the general public.
“We’re fighting these wars, we’re funding these wars, we’re sending our kids off to fight these wars, but we don’t want to look at these wars. It just really troubles me,” says Kamber. “People have to want to see the images, the newspapers have to want to publish them and the politicians have to stop censoring them.”
The book’s interviewees – Kamber’s colleagues and often friends – saw the war both while embedded with Western troops and also from an Iraqi perspective, and their stories give a comprehensive view. As the conflict progressed, British and US military commands cracked down on regulations and made access for photographers more difficult – and Iraqi police followed suit. The US military, for example, required that injured soldiers sign waivers allowing them to be photographed, in effect preventing those photographs from being taken.
Journalists embedded with British military faced different guidelines, but they were similarly restrictive. In his interview with Kamber, Peter Nicholls talks about ‘the green book’, a compulsory document for journalists to sign when working with British military, which clarified what they could and could not photograph. Images were also subject to review by the British military before they could be published. Nicholls experienced this censorship first-hand when he was prevented from publishing images of a wounded soldier who had survived his injury and had given permission to use the photos.
“It seemed to me that the powersthat be are hiding behind or using the privacy issue conveniently for their own political ends because of the lack of popularity of the war, and because they don’t want to see casualties in the British press,” Nicholls said to Kamber in his interview.
If journalists broke these rules, they risked losing their visas and press credentials to continue working in Iraq. Even when they managed to take the photos, the Western media continued to censor the images further, since publications, too, risked the revocation of credentials for their entire organisation.
The concept for the book grew from conversations Kamber had with his colleagues as they covered the war together, and many of the interviews were late-nightdiscussions that occurred while still in the midst of covering the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. These journalists often had little more than a lens between them and some of the bloodiest, most gruesome, scenes imaginable. Most have suffered emotionally and psychologically, and sometimes physically, for their craft.
João Silva, who first gained recognition for his work covering the end of apartheid as part of The Bang Bang Club, lost his legs to a landmine explosion in Afghanistan. “Some of us have visible scars and some of us have invisible scars. I think it’s the price you have to pay, regardless of whether you walk away physically in one piece, or if you walk away missing a limb or two. We want to tell the story,” Silva told Kamber in an interview that appears in the book.
Hoagland knows what it is like to lose family to conflict, because his father, photojournalist John Hoagland, was killed in El Salvador. For him, the issue is not simply leaving others behind, or even dealing with his own death. “You can risk your own life but, typically, if you’re working with a fixer, a translator, a driver, you’re talking about three other people. Is it worth it? If you want to go out and get yourself killed over some pictures, that’s fine, [but] it’s not just you,” he told Kamber.
In the US, there has been an increase in the media coverage surrounding services for returning veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder, but there is rarely discussion of what the conflict journalists experience themselves. In the interviews, photographers discuss nightmares, difficulty sleeping and substance abuse. Many of these journalists have had difficulty readjusting to civilian life and feel uncomfortable being a part of normal interaction. Some also experienced a decreased ability to calibrate the level of risk they faced while making decisions in the field.
“I left Iraq because I realised I couldn’t see the danger anymore. I couldn’t evaluate [whether] what I was doing was crazy or not. Every time you would go and come back, you would have to reset your level of security, your level of understanding. When you push the reset button and it doesn’t work, you’d better stop,” photographer Karim Ben Khelifa told Kamber.
While Kamber’s story is rarely mentioned in the book, he worked alongside these photographers in Iraq and has reported on several conflicts – from the Ivory Coast to Afghanistan. He has also lost friends. The book is dedicated to the 150 Iraqi journalists who died covering the war, and to Kamber’s close friends Chris Hondros and Tim Hetherington, who died covering the uprisings in Misrata, Libya, on 20 April 2011.
The first time I met Kamber, we sat in his New York apartment above the Bronx Documentary Center, which he opened in late 2011 with the same goal as the book: to educate. In the corner of his living room, in a glass-front cabinet filled with camera gear, was a white flak helmet with ‘TV’, the worldwide code used in conflict zones to denote press, in red lettering.
Three floors below, a large print of asimilar helmet hung in the centre of the room, this one army green and abandoned in the dirt among clothing and debris, and punctured with a single bullet hole. This photograph, and the rest of the collection that constituted the first exhibition at the Bronx Documentary Center, were some of the last shots taken by Hetherington in Misrata in April 2011.
When Kamber spoke about the friends he lost, it wasn’t with raw feelings but with emotional exhaustion – with a palpable dullness to his physical energy. Since he started covering conflicts after 9/11, he has lost colleagues again and again, watched troops die in combat, and shot photos of grief-stricken families and wounded children, and he has not been immune to the effects.
Kamber’s daughter, Sara, has seen a change in him. While she says that she’s a staunch supporter of his work and bristles at the suggestion that she doesn’t like what her father does, she has seen the toll it has taken on him over the years. “It’s not some drastic change, where he doesn’t laugh anymore, or he’s a zombie; he’s still my dad,” she says. “I can’t quite explain it except to say that maybe where there used to be a little bit of softness, there’s now a little bit of hardness.”
He hasn’t returned to Iraq or Afghanistan to work since January 2012. Instead, he has chosen to stay home and focus on his book and the development of the Bronx Documentary Center. Whether it’s the slow accumulation of losing friends to these conflicts or the changes in the field, he too is in transition. While his commitment to the dissemination of information hasn’t changed, the landscape of the media world has. “The degree of visual white noise out here is just extraordinary today,” says Kamber. “I’m not sure that I want to continue to risk getting killed or getting my legs blown off for pictures that are competing with Twitter feeds.”
Read more: http://www.bjp-online.com/british-journal-of-photography/report/2262550/photojournalists-on-war-the-untold-stories-from-iraq#ixzz2e6CviQQI
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