Traer Scott Photography Blog

The Dogs That A City Forgot: Detroit and the Stray Dog Epidemic

 

After half a century spent quietly fading into the forgotten corners of American consciousness, Detroit has recently been thrust back into focus by a seemingly repellent quality: spectacular failure. The Motor City’s immense and thoroughly disquieting collapse is now officially typified by its tens of thousands of abandoned and moldering buildings.

I first eyed a photo series of Detroit’s “feral” houses about three years ago which featured former homes, mansions and institutions in various stages of severe and usually irreparable decay. Some remnants were almost completely obscured by hungry vegetation that had been slowly suffocating their skeletal remains for decades. The lots to both sides were empty, the lots behind were empty; strewn with garbage and fragments of material life. A great expanse of nothingness seemed to surround these once functional, even majestic monuments to prosperity and progress. Could this really be Detroit?

Like many, I was intensely moved by these images of decadent decay. While it’s true that I felt the normal, cursory emotions: sadness, disbelief and even fear- I have to admit that what I really felt was a pang of photographic lust tinged with the titillating sixth sense of opportunity. I could do it better- but I would have to do it fast. Although the two periodically coincide, the business of photography is ultimately about who can do it first, not necessarily who can do it better. Timing is everything. Little did I know that I was already way too late.

By 2009, photographers had already begun flocking to Detroit intent on documenting the visual catnip that was an estimated 70,000 abandoned properties: houses, theaters, train stations, schools, shops, churches; amidst what used to be a major American city. People like me, seduced by the strange creative beauty that beckons and blooms within deconstruction, justify these projects as being noble because they document the ever important ‘state of things’- but are there truly any unselfish motives to our hunger or are we just vultures picking at a corpse in the name of art? I often think about the fine line between discovery and exploitation, particularly in my field, and can honestly say that I consciously strive to create empathetic work which somehow always leaves the subject better off rather than empty and used up. I’m sure there are many who would argue that from time to time, I fail. However, I don’t think anyone can dispute the fact that exposure, for better or worse, inevitably brings some form of change.

Within the following year, several major, epic photographic books were published (Lost Detroit: Stories Behind the Motor City's Majestic Ruins by Dan Austin and Sean Doerr; Detroit Disassembled by Andrew Moore; The Ruins of Detroit by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre) This kind of proliferation is generally perceived by the rest of the photographic community as a clear-cut cue to throw in the towel- that the fat lady has indeed sung. The once edgy subject of Detroit had reached relative saturation in the photography and publishing world and was now mainstream, as banal as photographing kittens or cathedrals. Recently the media even clinched this saturation by officially naming the once fringe obsession with the superlative decay of America’s Motor City. It is now referred to as “Ruin Porn” a literal “fetish for decay”.

Despite the implied masochism of “Ruin Porn”, these books, blogs, news stories and documentaries have made the American public and larger media somewhat more aware of what’s been happening in Detroit. For a long time the city’s leaders were reticent to shout defeat from the rooftops, but now it seems that reform and resuscitation have become a priority and they are embracing the media in all of its fickle glory. Coverage has now moved beyond a voyeuristic peek at decay towards a jubilant, ‘up from the bootstraps’, roll up your sleeves approach. However, amidst the fury and the fuss of the past few years, while everyone was busy breaking into abandoned theaters, stalking secret entrances to haunted train stations and generally exploiting deterioration in the name of record and rebirth, new tenants were quietly taking over the sprawling abandoned and burnt out neighborhoods. Dogs. Tens of thousands of them.

The majority of abandoned houses in Detroit are just that- abandoned. Their owners finally left after years of frustration, encroaching violence, and the crushing financial reality that accompanies literally worthless deeds. Buildings are selling all over the city for $100 or $500. (Of course in many instances you inherit the tens of thousands in back taxes rendering the already sketchy properties in truly sketchy neighborhoods even less appealing). With the decline and desertion of the city and its property has come the inevitable abandonment of thousands upon thousands of dogs, many just turned out onto the streets when their owners were finally forced to leave their homes. The city shelter has long since run out of room and resources. Detroit animal control consists of a mere handful of officers who have little choice but to round up animals for certain death.

I consider myself fairly plugged in to what’s happening in the world of animal welfare, yet I had heard no whisper of this issue until author Ken Foster (The Dogs Who Found Me and Dogs I have Met and the People They Found) called me in fall 2010. We were ruminating about projects to do together when he mentioned the street dogs of Detroit. In April of 2011 we embarked on a reconnaissance trip to investigate and begin documenting the situation. The goal of our three day visit was to create a dozen or so sample photos and some sample text that would be used to further pitch the project. Once we received funding we would then return and collect enough material for a book. Due to a number of roadblocks (some were anticipated but others were unforeseen) months have passed and I still have no idea what will become of this project. I certainly hope something does, but for now, there are encounters which still loiter in my mind, persistent and unshakable, that I want to share.

It is said that there are approximately 50,000 stray dogs on the streets of Detroit. Some people, like one convivial postman we met, think these numbers are completely overblown while others view it as a conservative estimate. It’s nearly impossible to get an accurate head count when so much of the population in question is very skilled at hiding.

The dogs of Detroit have adapted to life outside the realm of domestication in precisely the same way as the strays that I followed in Puerto Rico and Mexico. They have banded together in the fight for survival. When their needs are no longer met by humans, dogs tend to revert almost immediately to strong, innate pack instincts that are often quashed, distorted or simply not needed in the role of “pet”. The clear-cut roles of pack structure coupled with the obvious benefit of safety in numbers, make hunting for food, defending against predators and raising young much more viable for newly cast off canines.

The one thing the Detroit dogs have going for them that strays in other countries often lack, is shelter. With so many empty buildings, the dogs have no shortage of structures to choose from. Some properties are tightly boarded up, but we found many with unlocked doors and open or smashed windows. The dogs are clever and they find a way in. They make beds and little nests out of the debris left behind: often discarded clothes, mattresses and blankets. When none are available on site, they collect nesting material from people’s trash, the makeshift dumps that are everywhere or from other properties.

We kept seeing yard after yard strewn with stuffed animals, most of them decapitated or partially disemboweled. Eventually we discovered that the dogs were actually collecting them and bringing them home to play with. I was both fascinated and saddened by the notion that these animals who have lived unimaginably difficult lives, still felt the need not only to play, but to seek out and stockpile toys amidst the wreckage.

We navigated what felt like every square inch of Detroit searching for dogs. Sometimes I was glad to find them, and other times, I was relieved not to, but as we drove, I was repeatedly plagued by a weighty sense of déjà vu. Flooded with memories of long, painful months spent tracking dogs in Puerto Rico and Mexico, I felt a familiar sense of despair, but this was somehow different and even more unsettling. The most striking and obvious difference was that we were in Detroit- in America- but Detroit looked more like a second rate apocalyptic movie set with one neighborhood after another burnt out, abandoned and deconstructed. We needed armed security guards with us at all times. This was not so much to protect us from dangerous dogs but from dangerous people. The neighborhoods where these dogs live quite literally top every “worst” list with murder rates nine times higher than that of Los Angeles (2010 stats).

On the last day of our short trip, Ken and I followed a tip and went searching for dogs on a street called Elgin. The scene was pretty familiar at first: empty lots, a rusted, overgrown playground and street after street of desolation -but then we turned a corner and suddenly came upon five large dogs sprawled carelessly in the middle of the road. They appeared to simply be lounging, soaking up the weak sun on the sparsely traveled black top. We stopped the van about 20 feet away and two of the dogs immediately approached us.

The most gregarious dog was a stocky orange pit mix with a scarred face and injured, gimpy leg. A muscular male with floppy ears and a wide, smiling face, his whole body wiggled with excitement and joy when he approached us. The second dog, a young Collie/German Shepherd mix with an extremely long, bushy tri-colored coat was the second to make direct contact. She slunk slowly forward, tail wagging lazily, head bowed in unmistakable submissiveness until she was almost in my lap. The other three dogs, stocky black and tans who looked to be Rottie mixes of some kind, held back. We had hot dogs and began feeding them.

 

I think that what immediately struck us about these dogs was how trusting they were. Unlike many of the other strays who had learned (with good reason) to fear people and were all but unapproachable, these dogs seemed to yearn for human contact. Within minutes of stopping, the orange pit was belly up with Ken rubbing his exposed stomach and the Collie was actually nuzzling me. They seemed so vulnerable and were in a word, utterly ‘savable’.

It was heartbreaking to know that at some point we had to get back in the van and leave them there, having made their lives no better except for filling their stomachs with a few lousy hotdogs.

Although we only spent a few hours that day with the ‘Elgin Pack’, Ken and I were both riveted by the highly obvious and delineated pack order that we observed amongst these dogs. Their body language was so pronounced and unambiguous that it made discerning ‘who’s who’ almost effortless. The orange pit was clearly a beta male, ruled with an iron paw by the pack leader and alpha male, a rather puny Rottie mix. He closely guarded a youngish female who greatly resembled him and consistently used force in order to get the orange pit to submit. The scars on the latter’s face had almost definitely come from scuffles with alpha. The Collie seemed to be at the very bottom of the pack order, possibly a newcomer or even hanger-on, with one other stout Shepherd/Rottie mix female falling somewhere in between. Of course we will never know how these particular dogs ended up together in this particular neighborhood. Were they related? Did they know each other before being abandoned or did they somehow band together one by one until finally forming a pack?

 

The area they inhabited was quite a ways off the main road, comprised of a couple of streets lined with abandoned houses in various states of deterioration. Some were completely burnt out while others were simply boarded up and moderately decrepit. Many still sported old, lopsided signs declaring the property ‘condemned’ that hung on the boarded up windows and doors but one lone house at the very end of the last block was occupied. Although the house was aging, the property was immaculate and almost cheerful looking with a green, manicured lawn, new fence and even a few flowering plants. An elderly white man was outside mowing the grass. He was literally the only human resident left on the street and was clearly trying desperately to maintain a (perhaps pointless) sense of order and normalcy amidst his bleak reality. It must have been his trash that the dogs frequently scavenged for food.

After an exhausting evening filled with frantic attempts at organizing a last minute rescue for these dogs, we returned the next day, defeated but determined to see them one last time before flying home that afternoon. We assumed that the pack had made a home in one of the many burnt out houses nearby and after not finding them in the grassy fields adjacent to the rows of houses, decided to systematically check out some of the buildings. One of the most poignant photos on the shot ‘wish list’ for the trip was of dogs actually inside one of the abandoned buildings- but this had proved both elusive and downright dangerous since the structures were usually extremely unsound and the dogs very prone to fleeing. I was five months pregnant and much more cautious than usual so Ken would go into the houses first to check for rotting stairs, sunken floor boards and other dangers, and then I would follow.

Ken tiptoed into a two floor partially burnt out, boarded up wooden house at the top of the street to check for signs of dogs. I started to follow. The silence inside these houses was absolute and almost electric. I remember feeling a prickly rush of heightened awareness coupled with a sickening thrill of fear. The silence hummed in my ears and seemed deafening. We paused briefly to hear the usual creaks and groans emitted by the decaying wood as it was whipped by the Michigan wind. Then suddenly there came a loud scuffling noise and the frenzied sound of movement followed by a flash of fur that blasted down the stairs and out the back door. Several of the dogs had been inside and we had unwittingly flushed them out into the adjacent field where they then gathered, staring at us as we emerged from “their” house. The sweet Collie was absent. Maybe she was off looking for food or perhaps she had never been part of the pack to begin with.

When we approached the dogs this time, they didn’t come running up to greet us but instead hung back, watching from under the jumbled branches of a straggly tree dappled with tiny new spring leaves. We had quite a bit of time before needing to be at the airport and decided to just sit and watch them- watching us. After a few minutes, they relaxed and laid down in the sparse shade under the tree, popping their heads up every few minutes to monitor our movements. The eldest female went trotting off into the neighborhood.

After about 15 minutes, we noticed the female returning carrying something in her mouth. The others ran up to greet her and then fell into a line forming a little procession through the tall grass back to the cropping of trees. As she drew closer, we were able to make out the white plastic grocery bag filled with trash that she carried jauntily in her mouth. Her walk was crisp and proud. The other dogs, gamboling with tails wagging, were clearly excited about her find.

The bag was loosely knotted and bulging with what appeared to be a mixture of paper products and food scraps. We waited to see what would happen next. The little pack congregated near the tree and the female laid the bag carefully on the ground. Then she looked up at us. We waited, expecting to see one of them rip open the plastic and strew the contents around the field- but they didn’t. All four dogs just sat and watched us; clearly guarding the bag and definitely unwilling to open it while we were there.

We tried sitting very still at an old picnic table in an abandoned playground across the street, but they remained vigilant. We tried hiding in our car, but they were not fooled. The dogs simply sat and waited patiently for us to leave. I found this remarkable because self-control, particularly when it comes to food, is not something I find to be very common amongst the average canine. Add to this the fact that it had probably been months since these guys had experienced the luxury of regular meals, and you have some really fascinating behavior.

Exhausted and distressed by our experiences of the past few days, we finally had to admit defeat, climb into the rental car and head for the airport vowing to try and help these dogs- somehow.

Many months have gone by now and I our project has not yet moved forward. I think of the Elgin Pack daily, wondering if they are still alive. Maybe one of the local rescue efforts was able to help them. Maybe at least a few are safe in a loving home- but maybe not. With thousands of homeless dogs in need of help and no shelters, foster homes or even potential adoptive homes to send them to, the future is bleak for these dogs. Now it is winter and bitterly cold in Detroit. Many dogs will freeze to death. Hopefully our pack is huddled together for warmth atop a mound of salvaged detritus left by Detroit’s former human tenants.

Hope in Detroit seems to be rising but its dawn is much like the winter sun: late and weak. Many claim that the city's restoration has begun, other say things are worse than ever. Either way, help will come too late for thousands of dogs that a city forgot.

 

 

Silver Screen Flirtation

 

I am a self proclaimed movie junky. I watch what is undoubtedly, an absurd number of films every week - a cumulative number which, in the interest of preserving my professional reputation, I will not disclose but suffice it to say...a lot. I am however, a lazy and thrifty addict, relying almost exclusively on Netflix and a carefully chosen court of premium movie channels to deliver my fix. I rarely see movies in theaters because I find them overpriced, full of distractions (yes, YOU who fiddle with your shrink-wrapped candy throughout the entire film) and most importantly, impossible to pause or rewind.

So recently, I was sitting in the movie theater with my husband, enduring preview after ever loving preview, trying as usual, not to be annoyed by the fact that there were actually other people in the theater when suddenly, a trailer for Cats and Dogs II The Revenge of (ummm) Kitty Galore came up. Half way through the clip, I saw two giants photos on a billboard which seemed very familiar, but alas, they were gone before I could even blink. When we got home, I found the trailer online and realised that I was not barmy and they were in fact my photos on that giant orange billboard which a dog wearing an out of control jet pack careens through. The  crash takes out the face of the cat on the right, leaving the wry image you see below.

In 2008, I shot a national campaign for the ASPCA using animals who were currently waiting for homes in their NYC shelter and these are two of the images from that shoot. It was a rare and unexpected treat to see them on the big screen even if no one else in the audience knew they were mine. Plus, I was thrilled to see such prominent placement for the ASPCA in a massively mainstream Hollywood film (AND every single version of the preview).

What's this?? An unequivocally positive animal welfare message in a big budget Warner Brothers kids' movie? Alright then.

You can watch the entire preview here.

 

 

Death on Our Shoes

It is no secret that the dogs who end up in shelters are the unlucky ones. These are not the dogs that get to nose open Christmas stockings, or who trot down the street with designer collars. They are not the dogs who sleep under the crisp bed covers at night or ride gleefully with their heads hanging out the windows of cars. More times that not, these are the dogs  who are viewed as being expendable by their owners. They are the ones who get loose or get dumped and no one comes to look for them. Many shelter dogs have rarely seen the vet...or been given a simple $20 vaccination that protects them against Parvo. Their bad luck however,  is the only way in which these dogs are inferior. They are just as smart, just as loving and just as beautiful as any other dog. Sometimes, more so.

Last week, a quiet, faceless enemy swept through the shelter where I volunteer. This time the antagonist wasn't time, but a faint trace of bright red blood in the dogs' stools which became proof positive of Parvovirus. So far, the outbreak has left a body count of 21, all Pit Bulls.

Every single dog that I nurtured, named, photographed, wrote Petfinder bios for, played with and taught skills to, is now dead. The staff who fed, watered and cared for  these dogs all day, every day now goes to work in a quarantined facility that is oddly quiet yet full of ghosts.

There are so many things that make this devastating, not the least of which is the fact that at least 3 of these dogs had been at the shelter for almost 4 months, while myself and the staff tried desperately every week to place them. The trio survived several culls for space, almost constant confinement, a severe lack of mental stimulation and a level of stress that most human beings can not even fathom. They triumphed over all of this- just to be taken out by a virus that spread silently from one infected carrier...a virus that is almost 100% preventable.

When I first heard that the shelter was closed due to Parvo, my heart fell into my stomach, but I had no idea how widespread the infection would be. The next day, I received a list with ten or more infected dogs on it, the following day, another 6. One by one, all of these lives which we fought so hard to save, were extinguished.  All of this from a virus that hung in the air, clinging to our shoes and our hands, spreading evasively since late June.

I am so saddened and angry at this needless loss of life. Angry because these dogs didn't deserve to be there in the first place and even angrier because if any one of them had been current on their shots, they would still be alive.

Over the past 15,000 years, we have succeeded in domesticating and thouroughly dominating a species that now is completely dependent upon us to survive. The gray wolf, which the dog was once domesticated from, hunts for it's food, breeds autonomously, possesses natural immunities to disease and lives a life completely free of and in fact,  antithetical to, human existence. Dogs on the other hand, have been bred for millenia to serve humans: as companions, workers and protectors. They are utterly subservient to our treatment and rely entirely on us for food, shelter, affection, amusement and good health.

All they really require is the most minimal of care and compassion and we continue to fail them.

We allow them to breed rampantly and then kill 4 million every year in shelters because there isn't enough space; we make them into designer breeds like Labradoodles and Cockapoos because it's a charming mix while 30% of the homeless dogs in shelters are pure breds; we abuse them, neglect them and even fight them until the death.

Don't we owe these ancient companions more respect? We show more reverence and good will to the very least and most despicable of our own species while constantly using and abusing the faithful creatures that have been at our side for centuries.

I write this in memory of Sasha (pictured), Huckleberry, Bandy, Tiger, Summer, Damon and all of the dogs who were needlessly lost last week due to public enemy #1, ignorance.

 

The Ocean and the Infinite

Today I was among tens of thousands of New Englanders who manically flocked to the beach in order to both celebrate and survive the first noticably hot Friday since Summer's  inauspicious beginning.

Every year at the start of the season,  I re-visit my fascination with the mystical allure of the ocean and the perplexing dichotomy that is our relentless reverence and exploitation of it. There's no denying that a swim in the sea on a hot day is refreshing. But so is a cold shower, air conditioning, or a dip in a clean suburban swimming pool. What is it about the beach and the tempestuous, primordial ocean that so enthralls us?

While shooting my last book Wild Horses, I was stationed in Ocean City, Maryland for a week.  With it's legacy of unpretentious pastel motels, elaborate putt-putt courses, tacky souvenir shops and every fast food chain known to man represented on the same street, Ocean City is an intoxicating, sentimental masterpiece of Americana camp and capitalization. I found myself powerless to resist it's ironic sincerity and timeless appeal. The Pizza Hut there still has a salad bar.

Like any and all of America's seaside oddities, Ocean City's retro splendor was drawn there decades ago by one thing and one thing only: the American public's overwhelming need to journey to the ocean. Every square inch of coast is flanked by something and behind that something are several parallel rows of other somethings that weren't lucrative enough to deserve beachfront property.

Had I arrived in Ocean City two weeks later, I would have been trapped in what locals describe as "amateur month" when high school and college kids arrive en masse to drink, puke and blister in the sun. Fortunately I got to witness the calm before the storm. And what an eery calm it  was. The beaches were barren, the few open restaurants empty, and the epic mini golf palaces and boardwalk still closed for repairs. The stillness and lack of people amidst so much tawdry infrastructure created a sweet, familiar lonliness for me. At dawn, before I spent the day chasing wild horses on the starkly contrasted pristine, unblemished shores of Assateague National Seashore, I wandered in somewhat of a trance through the aging, seasonally forsaken man-made spectacles of Ocean City.

That week I began what has become a long term project of documenting our complex and contradictory relationship to the ocean.

I will never live land-locked. Despite the inevitable crowds, traffic and stupidity, over the past few years I have continued to invent more and more excuses to be in or near the water almost every day. Whether any of the bikini teen queens, metal detecting septuagenarians, football tossing jocks or other  predictable beach characters realize it, I believe we are all drawn to the ocean in a need to reconnect with the infinite. The question is, will there be anything worthwhile left to connect with in 50 years?

 

 

 

Apathy is Not Acceptable

The choice to become a volunteer lead directly to the creation of my  book Shelter Dogs, and subsequently to the rest of my life.

I can actually remember the exact moment when late at night, sitting in complete darkness except for the sickly glow of my computer screen, I decided to act. It was then, browsing through photo after photo of dogs that were dead - completely innocent victims of overpopulation and ignorance - that I finally thought of a way to channel my anger and devastation. My sole purpose in creating Shelter Dogs was to make a tangible memorial to these animals in the hopes of saving others yet to be abandoned or even born.

The book, which met with immediate and completely unforseen success, officially kicked off my career with a bang. Now, almost 5 years later, Shelter Dogs has been re-released in paperback, sold in countries all around the world and translated into Japanese. We have raised tens of thousands of dollars for the ASPCA and hopefully inspired many other people to act in some small or perhaps great way.

I am still volunteering every week despite my deepest hopes that one day I will wake up and no longer be needed.

Since December, I have been the sole volunteer at my shelter in Providence. In that time,  I have had to step up to responsibilities that I never thought I could handle. In truth, I can't handle them but am trying to hold on for a few more weeks at which point I have been promised that we will get more help. Every week is a desperate struggle to save the dogs that have been unlucky enough to end up there. Every week more come in. Every week, some die whether it is due to space, illness or behavior issues. Every week, I delete these beings from existence when I hit "remove" on Petfinder.

However, almost every week, a really great dog finds a really great home. Bleu (see image) is this week's success story. Given his stocky stature, enormous head and of course, Bully Breed status, I didn't think he stood much of a chance, but last Friday, a couple came in and fell in love with him. Although Bleu has had to remain at the shelter this week to await neutering, the family has come to visit him everyday. Sometimes they come seperately on their lunch breaks. Today, the husband brought all three of their children. They have food, shampoo, a bed and all imaginable comforts waiting for this big lug for when he finally goes home on Tuesday.

Now, this family found this dog on Petfinder after viewing the photos that I took of him and reading the description I posted. When they came to meet him, I was there and spent over an hour talking to them to help them pick the right dog for them. This is an instance where I know that what I did actually made a huge difference in the life of this dog. This is the miracle of volunteering. How often do any of us actually get to say that we saved a life?

Volunteering on the front lines is definitely not for everyone, but everyone does have something, somehow to give. That is why I encourage every single person regardless of your occupation, age or financial situation to consider giving just one or two hours a week to a worthy cause. Analyze your strengths, talents and resources and share them. Graphic designer? Offer to re-design the logo for a local non-profit or create a brochure or calendar or new website for them. Lawyer? Offer your legal services or involve your firm in a charity drive. Plain old normal person? Collect towels and blankets for an animal shelter, help the local food bank, the list goes on and on.

If your passion is animals, then think about this: If just ONE new volunteer in every town, village or city in America helps find a home for just ONE shelter animal a week, then together we would change the destiny of over 25,000 animals EVERY WEEK, and over 1.3 MILLION a year.

Inspiration, gratification and immense personal growth are predicted side effects.

For lots of volunteer opportunities visit: Volunteer Match

Apathy is not acceptable.

 

Underwater in Early May

One of my purest joys in life, other than dogs and aiming a camera at things, is the ocean. In warmer months, I spend as much time as possible in the water swimming, snorkeling and yes, also photographing. 

Frustrated by the length of New England winters and my compulsive nightly dreams of diving beneath waves and gliding noiselessly through reefs, I finally decided to acquire the necessary gear to snorkel and swim in cold water.  Last week, I made my third attempt in the 48 degree Atlantic waters in Jamestown, Rhode Island. Although the thick, restrictive suit, hood and gloves take some getting used to, it has been a great joy to get back in the water several months before it's warm enough for bathing suits and bare skin.

I am beginning an underwater photo series on the Narragansett Bay Waters in Rhode Island and Southern Massachusetts which will feature a glimpse at the varied landscapes just below the surface of the water. This is one of my favorite images of all time: my husband and pit bull, Audrey  swimming together in the St. Lawrence River in Ontario.

 

Winding Back Up from Down Time

The past five years have brought many changes in my life. Indeed in more recent months, the defining difference has been a lack of change. From 2005-2008, I was in a career whirlwind with book signings, media events and shooting assignments which swept me to many corners of the globe. It became standard for me to be traveling about 5 out of 12 months each year. While the experiences were truly unforgettable, after the release of Wild Horses, it was time for a little break to catch my breath and allot time for work on several personal series which had long been put on the back burner.

With the help of a Fellowship Grant that I received from the Rhode Island State Council for the Arts, I have been able to devote time to working on The Hungry Ghost and Natural History. The former is now completed for the time being but the latter is still growing along with my scope and vision for the project. I will be returning to New York next week to gather more images and hope to also expand my shooting to include candid imagery from museums in Philadelphia and Los Angeles.

A great honor that has just recently come my way is an invitation this fall to photograph the much endangered Asian Elephant through Boon Lott's Elephant Sanctuary in Thailand. This opportunity is exciting on so many levels and I'm thankful beyond words that my generous hosts  thought of me for this project which will hopefully span many different aspects of the modern threats facing Asian Elephants. I travel to New Hampshire next week to meet with Katherine Connor, founder of Boon Lott's (making a rare trip to the US) as well as MaryLou Hecht of Dyad Communications, an activist and champion of the sanctuary.