Common Ground Christopher Briscoe Published by Christopher Briscoe at Smashwords Copyright 2011 Christopher Briscoe www.chrisbriscoe.com www.Facebook.com/ChristopherBriscoePhotographer Front Jacket Flap Project Enlighten was developed by two passionate individuals who were inspired by a chance encounter with a young land mine survivor, begging on the streets of Phnom Pen, Cambodia. Asad Rahman and Olivia Lorge are wildland firefighters in the US. Establishing opportunities for children to succeed in Cambodia and in the world is what Project Enlighten is all about. The organization’s mandate is to create funding for a variety of education and training programs including university scholarships, vocational training projects and micro-finance loans in rural villages. ALL donations are tax-ductable. 100% of your contributions will go to work in the field supporting your projects, their dreams and our vision. Through our collaborative efforts we can affect so many who need our help. www.projectenlighten.org Table Of Contents Introduction Waking Up The Refugee Camp The Dump The World Of Sao Jack, The Adventurer The Monks Introduction The Photography of Christopher Briscoe Photography as an accepted part of the world of contemporary art is well established, yet ironically still debated. The ubiquitous access to the technology contributes to the debate. Many of us, given enough time, can produce a great photograph worthy of consideration as a work of art, but very few of us can be considered fine art photographers. A good photographer can make perfect exposures, great prints and, if lucky enough, first class compositions, but rarely works of fine art. Fine art photography is driven by ideas not technology and ideas are derived from the soul of an artist not from the hands of the technician. Great fine art photographers are further distinguished by visionary ideas and the passion to risk everything in the pursuit of their art. I believe that Christopher Briscoe's recent photographs from Cambodia are clearly the result of a visionary idea. Briscoe is primarily a portrait photographer with a client list that stretches from the East Coast to Hollywood. His ability to make superb contemporary portraits is not what distinguishes his newest work, however, but his ability to combine those skills with a very personal sense of universal human understanding, a unique style of communication, rock solid compositions, and the passion of a true artist. The photographs in this book are a series of documentary portraits in the best tradition of journalistic photography combined with a unique stylistic approach. The results are superb fine art portraits. In a series of images taken at a garbage dump, Briscoe concentrated on the families and children that live there. The focus is not on the circumstances of their lives, or a political judgment about their conditions, but on the essence of the people themselves. In one photograph, a small boy's face is framed by the faces of his parents while the shanties and trash of the background are thoughtfully out of focus. The sense of place is well established but the subject matter is clearly the little child. In another photograph called "Looking for Daddy" three small children lean against the bars of a dimly lit outdoor prison wall apparently searching for their fathers. The prisoners' faces are all in shadow while the boys' faces are partially shown creating a moody darkness and a strong horizontal composition. The photograph is not preachy nor does it ask for our pity. It only asks us to consider the act of searching. The vertical bars, the scale of the children, the placement of the children in the picture plane, the overall tone and the lighting all combine to create a photograph of extraordinary complexity. In photograph after photograph, Briscoe brings us into the lives of these people without overwhelming us with comparative guilt. The photograph of the small girl sitting on a bicycle against a wood graffiti strewn wall is a photograph of hope and purpose not one of despair, as one would expect. This hope is created by Briscoe's careful use of the tonal neutrality of the bicycle, the wood wall and the dirt street. The girl's laughing smile, her bright red and white clothes, and her relaxed pose make her surroundings seem familiar and unthreatening. In another photograph, a close-up of a pig's face is balanced by a group of children in the background. They seem as comfortable in their environment of a dirt street and a loose pig as our children are in their school playgrounds. In one of my favorite photographs, two water buffalo are frozen in an act of defiance each determined to go its own way while a small boy nonchalantly coaxes one to reverse direction. The gray sky, the sepia toned stubble in the fields, and the brown hides of the buffalo are well balanced by the flesh tone of the boy's face. These surprising associations are reinforced again by the smallness of the face and the enormity of the water buffaloes. The photograph is a great composition and a moving work of art. In photograph after photograph Christopher Briscoe's sense of artistic completeness is balanced by his vision of humanity. This book is the best expression of a fabulous idea resulting in a work of contemporary fine art. John Davis - Davis & Cline Gallery, Ashland, Oregon Back to Table of Contents Waking Up February 9th, 2008 I began this journey to get out of my comfort zone. I felt as though I had been in luke-warm bath water for too long. I had never been to Southeast Asia. When I arrived in Bangkok, I knew two things; I had just stepped into another world and I must have been asleep for years. I really don't know where to begin. Bangkok is wild, crowded, polluted; barely controlled chaos. We drive on the left. Scooters buzz everywhere, often weighted with a family of four or five. It seems that there are no enforced rules of the road, but that ensures that everyone keeps alert. At the occasional stoplights, there is a visual digital countdown next to the overhead traffic light, like some American crosswalks, so you know exactly when the red (yellow or green) light is going to change. We treat the countdown as though we're at the drag races. The ones in front rev up and jump the light to get ahead of the pack. Smiles are everywhere. Praying hands meet the tip of the nose and heads bow. He who loses his temper first, loses any conflict. (What's with that?!) Wonderful food, rice, fish, veggies, spices, steamed or stir fried. When I leave my hotel room, all electricity is switched off automatically until my return. I have not seen one incandescent light bulb on the entire trip, all small, squirrelly fluorescents. The shower room and the toilet are together with a hot water coil heater mounted on the wall. It heats only what you use. No shoes inside, ever. Everyone sweeps. Electric fans spin inside as well on the patios, swirling the thick humidity. The color of my pee lets me know that my re-hydration is always behind. After a 9 hour bus ride north to Mae Sot, I find a bungalow with a scooter at a cost of about $50 a week. I hop on my Honda Dream and zoom through the crowded streets past the open markets to the river that borders Myanmar and Thailand. I stand and watch as refugees occasionally float across the shallow, muddy waters on large black inner tubes with hopes of fleeing an oppressive military and finding a better life. The following morning I wheel my motorbike behind the police station and find the street level city jail. I lean over a short wall to see the brown, rusty cells. They are packed deep. Wives hand food through the bars. Children stand on the outside of the cages looking for daddy. I hire a driver to take me in his pick-up to Mae Ra, a refugee camp an hour away. 60,000 people call it home. For many residents, this has been their home for nearly two decades. The huts are framed on top of log stilts a man’s height off the ground. The roofs are made of thick, dry teak leaves and the walls of bamboo stems are cut in half lengthwise and lined tightly together. The huts blanket the foothills of a large mountain, whose gray stone cliff face makes a stunning backdrop behind the camp. From the road, this massive collection of bungalows looks like a beautiful mountain city built of natural materials in the Thai forest, but from these winding pathways on the inside, this is no idyllic collection of huts. It is a crowded, trash-filled maze, where barefoot children run unattended and adults wander with little to do. My camera and tiny-battery operated photo printer are my entry tickets; my own connection to the people who live here. I walk among the bamboo huts, trying to look as though I belong, but feeling very much a stranger in a strange land. I stop and ask a family, by pointing to my camera, permission to take their photo. They smile and nod, sitting in an open bamboo doorway. A few clicks later and I bring out my printer. It starts to spin and whir in an effort to crank out their first portrait. In seconds the word echoes and a crowd gathers. I am now surrounded by children and old ladies, stealing glances at me then back to the printer, making a connection. A dozen heads hover above the printer, waiting for the magic to emerge. An elder barks an order and a few of the shoving kids step back in reprimand. The shiny color print finally spits itself out setting off cheers around me. I am no longer separated, but am now a part of the community. A couple of families I befriend speak limited English. I listen to stories about struggles and overcoming fear and long walks through land-mined jungles toward freedom. One Pakistani man tells me of the University degree he has in Economics and Accounting. He now makes a few dollars a day selling oranges and candy under his stilted house. Only a few of the residents here are allowed out during the day. Curfew is at 9 pm. People with guns patrol at night. On the long truck ride back to Mae Sat, I find myself filled with emotions. My head bounces, resting on the back of the seat. My eyes close. Every photo I took, every person I met, drifts through my brain. I begin to silently weep. My mind plays back their collective stories of hope and determination. My tears flow not only for their struggle, but for their perseverance. I have always known that our character is defined by our own struggles. In comparison my challenges have seemed effortless. Being born in America is like being born on third base. I feel guilty. Where have I been? Apparently asleep. Back to Table of Contents Back to Table of Contents From the Democratic Voice of Burma... U Than Ngwe, 45, who was among those injured, said the bomb went off as people began to search through the rubbish for things they could resell. "Dumpster number 3 unloaded the rubbish from the market and we began searching through it for any valuable items, and then the bomb exploded near where a child was searching," U Than Ngwe said. "The child was seriously injured and in a state of shock, and he was running around for a while and then collapsed," he went on. "I felt the side of my body and it was only then I noticed the side of my body was suddenly numb, and I couldn't see anything." U Than Ngwe said that many other people became unconscious in the blast. All of the injured were sorting through garbage at the time, including 8-year-old Maung Aung Bo and 30-year-old ethnic Karen Pho Dah, who suffered serious injuries to their eyes and limbs. After receiving some outpatient treatment at the district hospital, 11 of the 14 injured persons were called by the police to make reports about the incident. According to witnesses, the police reassured the victims that they would take the people back to their homes in the dump after they gave reports. Because of this, not only the victims but also members of their family freely went to the police station. But instead of taking reports as they said, the police put all the people into the immigration detention cells. They did not have permits to work or stay in Mae Sot. On the following day, February 23, the police sent an unknown number of family members back to Burma where government officials there interrogated them at length. Back to Table of Contents Sao and I sit at a dinner table in a Siem Reap restaurant. "This is where my friend, Asad ate. He had dinner here every night. Let me show you his favorite meal." Pointing to the laminated menu, Sao holds up a thumb to let me know that it is good. I ask Sao if he wants a beer. “Angkor is the best,” he tells me and makes sure the quiet man waiting our table brings a pitcher. We eat and drink. I ask Sao about his family and if he remembers when they were killed by Pol Pot. He looks down from the beer and recalls, " I have two memories… My first memory is of my mother rocking me to sleep. I was eight. I remember her voice, singing to me . She did this every night. Singing, rocking me, singing." He glances up at me, briefly. His ever present boyish smile is gone. I see his eyes brim. He continues, " rocking me and singing, ‘sleep now my son, for mommy is going away.’ The next day my parents were killed." Tears spill from his face…as well as my own. There is an uneasy quiet at the table. I feel a shift take place inside of me that anchors itself in my soul. "The second thing I remember," Sao continues, "is the sound of the bell. After my parents were killed, I had to go to work in the rice fields. It was hard work. I was only eight. All day long in the sun and rain. Once a day, the bell would ring. I loved the sound it made. It meant that I could finally eat. I ran through the rice fields to my bowl. I will always remember the sound of that bell." From early 1987 until 1989 Sao was a Pagoda boy in the Kampongcham Province. As a Pagoda boy, he served the Monks by collecting food from the villages for them to eat. During this time he began to learn Buddhist prayers and chants. Sao was a student to the Monks before becoming one himself. The Monks took care of him. In 1989 at the age of 18, he proudly became a Monk. For 10 years, every day was exactly the same as the day before it. Rise at dawn; work, pray, chant, learn the way of monk, then beg in the streets for food. Being a monk, as with many boys in Cambodia, was a way to survive, with shelter and food and a form of education. It also gave Sao a sense of respect and discipline. But, being a man of vision and passion he wanted to change his life again. Sao decided to take his journey to a new level and left his orange robe behind in 2001. He found a job working at the front desk of a small hotel in Siem Reap. With the same passion that had guided him for so many years, Sao was the one who could bring in more business than anyone else. " Hey mister, want a room? I give it to you really cheap. How about five dollars?" That is exactly what happened to Asad and his two traveling buddies as they walked past the front of the hotel. "Want to see the room? Only five dollars." Asad was a firefighter from the States. He was on his own Asian quest. It didn‘t take him but a few days to see something very special about Sao‘s unbridled energy and infectious grin. Asad soon realized that this man could be a part of his own transition, a part of his own hopes and dreams. Little did these two men know that this chance meeting -- both men wanting to help another and both needing to find a meaningful path for himself -- would merge into one path that would change their lives forever. Sao's employers, the hotel owners, were not at all happy when he announced that he was leaving. Sao is a born businessman, with networking skills beyond what is taught at Harvard. Sao is also a man of vision and the idea of owning his own tuk-tuk (a 125cc motorbike that does a two wheeled taxi cart) was a rung up on this smal man's tall latter. As Sao tells it, Asad bought him the tuk-tuk. As Asad tells it, he only provided part of the funds. Nonetheless, in Sao's heart, Asad made it happen. Now Sao as a team of 10 tuk-tuk drivers who proudly provide transportation for people in and around the Sien Reap area and to the 11th century Temples of Angkor Wat. "I charge $13 a day for my services, plus 2 extra dollars to buy school supplies for the children. (I don't give the money to the teachers. They will keep it. I buy the paper and pencils for the children and give it to them.)" When I meet with my team, we put the money in a box. I tried to open a bank account, but the bank made it too hard. I have to have all kinds of documents to open an account. They want records of who my parents were. I told them I don't have parents. I cannot even marry my wife because there are no records of who my parents were." The rainy season comes in July. That is when Sao turns his joyous energy into being a rice farmer. We unhook the tuk-tuk trailer and leave it with a friend. I ride on the back of his motorbike to his village, down long narrow dirt roads through a February dried countryside. Bermed rice fields surround us. Down a straight, tree-lined dusty path, then past thatched houses standing on tall poles put together with weathered, sun bleached wood. Chickens run across the road. Children stare at the large, alien white man hanging off the back end of Sao‘s moped. I smile and wave. Their expressions switch on instantly into joyous smiles. "Hello-o!," I yell. In unison the echo returns with the only English word they know, "Hello-o-o!" The moped stops in front of Sao‘s hut. Family pours out toward us. More smiles, except for the babies, They take one look at me and bawl. A nearby water buffalo bolts and runs. Sao tries to explain that they have never seen a foreigner before. I am a visitor from another planet. A huge sow lying on the ground nearby lifts her head to see if there is a threat. Her four babies are fixated on getting her milk in their own quest for survival. Sao shows me his moonshine still and explains how it works. He pours some of the clear rice wine into a cup. I hesitate to drink it, thinking back on all of the shots my doctor gave me before I boarded the plane. I know I must take a drink from this forbidden well. I know I will never be the same. I drink and am surprised at how good it tastes. I ask to have my cup refilled. The women bring out bowls of rice, chicken and vegetables. We sit on the dirt atop woven palm mats and eat with our hands. I am the new matinee in town and everyone stares. Their bright smiles and soft giggles let me know that I am welcome. I do not want to go home. Back to Table of Contents Young Jack The morning air in Siem Reap, Cambodia seems almost clear. The brutal humidity hasn’t kicked in yet. Jack and I sit at our favorite table in the Blue Pumpkin overlooking the noisy main street. Eggs, ham and toast arrive at our table. Coffee comes too, but Jack and I just snicker at the tiny cup, and know that the bottom is layered in sweet condensed milk. We dig in. It is our favorite part of the day. On the crowded street below a tanned man in white short sleeves stands proudly, almost defiantly, without arms. A sign on the side of his cart reads, “I am not a beggar. I am a man. I want to work!” One in every 236 Cambodians is an amputee from a land mine. We take bites, in between looking out the window and trying to think of ways to be compassionate. There are times in Cambodia when I am at a loss. I want to run and save everyone, give each person something to help them. Kids often come up to me in the street, with dirt-caked faces and pleading stares, their small hands outstretched in hope. Jack and I take extra care in enjoying our breakfast. We complain again to each other about the coffee. We laugh, perhaps thinking of Starbucks a world away. We are thrilled to be in a part of the world that is so new to us. It is as though we are newborn babies, our eyes opened wider than the moment before by each passing thing. Jack has become the perfect traveling companion. He has become my friend in the kindest sense of the word. I met him on the dust-caked bus ride from the Thai border. He didn’t have an ID photo for his visa and couldn’t afford the 100 baht the Polaroid man at the rest stop wanted. Much to the amazement of the onlookers, I brought out my HP printer, told Jack to smile, clicked my camera and made him four wallet prints on the spot. Our bus driver and his sidekick told us that it would take only a few hours to get to Siem Reap. After seven hours, a rumor bounced around the bus that we were on an alternate route, a long brutal one, to wear us out so we’d stay at the designated overpriced hotel at the end of the day. There were times during the ride when I was sure it could not get any worse, only to feel the weak suspension bottom out again, slamming into yet another deep hole. Exactly 10 hours later, at mid-night, we arrived at the tiny inn owned by our driver‘s pal. We were all dusted with the red road dirt. Jack’s window was busted out and he looked as though he had ridden on the hood. We knew it was a set-up. Forty bucks. Jack and I walked back down the alley, hopped in a tuk-tuk and asked the driver to find us another hotel. The next hotel was new with clean tiles and an overhead fan in the room. Jack was limping and wincing in pain. He showed me an infection he had on the back of his leg that was pounded into a pus ball from the crazy bus ride. His bandage was ragged and wicking orange. I took one look at the wound and told him, “we’re going to the doctor in the morning. If we don’t, you will be looking to buy a prosthesis when we visit the land mine museum.” Jack and I continue to eat our breakfast. We laugh about the bus ride and the Chinese doctor we found the following day. We roar, remembering his screams that echoed down the hall as the doc removed the alien pus ball with an X-Acto knife, then washed his hands, drying them on the seat of his pants. Jack and I laugh a lot. The more I know him, he mirrors myself at his age. My mind flashes back to the time I was on a small sailboat in the Pacific on my way to Tahiti. I was the young adventurer with the world before me. I squint across the table, and wonder if we may even look alike. Part of me feels as though I am shifting back in time, meeting myself again. “Jack, let’s e-mail a photo of you to your mom!“ I raise my tiny Leica camera to snap. He lifts his orange juice glass to toast the lens. “Gin-Gin Mummy!” he says in his delightful British accent. I laugh so hard I cannot hold the camera still. Back to Table of Contents Back Jacket Flap Christopher Briscoe photographs people from all walks of life, around the world. He often says, “the greatest landscape of all is the human face.” His camera is his connection to the rest of the planet. Christopher resides in Ashland, Oregon with his son, Quincy To see more of his work, visit www.chrisbriscoe.com/. Back to Table of Contents This book is dedicated to: Jack Pryor, who reminded me of who I once was, To Lisa McCoy who reminded me of who I could be, To Sao who reminded me how happy we can be while owning so little and to the members of Project Enlighten who have inspired me to make a difference. ### www.chrisbriscoe.com www.Facebook.com/ChristopherBriscoePhotographer www.projectenlighten.org Back to Top