cyclist

It was once brought to my attention that I don’t discuss photography and photographs enough on this blog. I would probably agree with that comment but I also have a half dozen other places where you can see the images. Although, most forums do not allow for detailed stories, techniques, or other things.

I guess a part of me wants to keep some of my magic a secret; not like photography is a mystery. Years ago, before this trip, I was also told that I am “too timid” to get those street shots and portraits that I now have. That I need to “go in like gang busters” and don’t care if they get upset. Well, this is not how I work and never will be. My tippy toe, sweet smile, and gentle demeanor is what has gotten me where I am, right now.

There is more to these people’s stories than a still image; a moment caught in time. You’ve probably caught on that I spend a lot of time, if possible, with the people I photograph. I talk to them as much as possible and I sit back and wait for the time to pull out the camera. There is a method and I’m not going to spill it for free, here. People often ask me how I get some of the intimate portraits and I guess it’s something that sets me apart from the millions of tourists snapping off thousands and thousands of photos on vacation in hopes for that one million dollar winner they will submit to some National Geographic contest.

There is so much that goes on behind the scenes that will never been seen, documented, or really discussed. When looking at my photos you may not realize my interaction and experience within the moment.

When I was watching a mud house being made in Yunnan, within 15 minutes the two dozen women had convinced me (not very difficult) to climb the ladder and help pack down the dirt for the exterior walls. Of course I didn’t take the camera up there with me, I left it on the ground and lived in the moment; I attempted to live the life they lead.

Living with the Uyghurs, there were days I would go out to the cotton fields with them and pick next to the family of four. Sitting on the edge of the cotton fields eating naan and pears while the women rubbed my arms and hands from all the open cuts on my hands and arms. In the evening all of us sitting around for dinner, absolutely exhausted after a full day of back breaking work. I am not a leach of a photographer, I try to give as much in return as possible. Whether it’s labor, English tutoring, or sending a package of medicine to aching gramma.

Taking walks to a stupa in Tibet, holding a little girl’s hand for nearly a mile as we walked near the shores of Lake Namu. One of the most intimate moments I have shared with anyone over the past few years, one moment that nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Going to markets with families and helping carry items home and keeping an eye on the children. Assisting in the picking out of fabrics for a new pillow and choosing the perfect amount of camel fur to be stuffed in the bedding.

I am not just a photographer, I am not just a cyclist, I am not just Eleanor. I am “Ai Lun” or “Ai Gul”, as I’m known in other parts of the world. I am a storyteller, I am the voice of those that I have captured in an intimate moment. I am an entity that can travel within borders and boundaries unnoticed, gathering as much information as possible. My experience is so much more than mileage, altitudes, and photographs. I feel as I’ve lived a dozen different lives over the past 3 years.

This month marks the 3 year anniversary of the beginning of my trip. These months home has allowed me to dig deeper and have realizations about the life of a photographer. A recent email from a photographer I highly admire commented on how I am so open about the pains, struggles, and the tragic loneliness of a photographer. We’ve all met those photographers that seem to be so confident, so Alpha, so have their shit together…you know the joke rings a bit true about there is “only one photographer allowed in a room at a time”. I’m learning that these guys are not of the majority, or at least the type I like to hang with. Although I met many more like these when living in NYC.

Although, Brooks, if you are reading this, it was such a breath of fresh air to know you aren’t like the majority either. It was such a pleasure meeting you and talking shop (2 wheels and photography).

What I want to express is that my chosen profession, although it’s hard to call something I love so much, is not what it may seem. This is not to be a boo hoo story of any sorts, but I want to share what goes into being a photographer, or a creative.

Firstly, I’m realizing that photographers (and a majority of other creatives) all have this disconnected sense from the world. Returning home, I have a few new friend photographers and some old. These people are the ones that I think, right now, offer the most of what I need emotionally and mentally. We all know how it is; often it can’t be expressed but the constant requirement of solitude is seen in our photographs. When we take the camera down from our eyes we can see within each other the long lonely path we have all chosen to get where we are.

Photographers are a lonely, secluded, lot of outcasts. I have yet to meet another that isn’t somewhat socially awkward in his or her own sense. But it’s what makes us an awesome bunch, all our little strange quirks. We are the ones that can appreciate it in one another.

Of course there is the constant commiseration of never having enough money to purchase new equipment. For many of you that don’t know, there are rental houses in NYC and all over the world that cater to us. The working class photographer. I don’t know how many times my equipment has been snubbed by high dollar flash packers carrying the best equipment around on their grand tour. They are not professionals, but their 6 figure income can afford the luxuries that us photographers salivate about some day attaining.

So, as you can see, my life as a loner has no separation from my work, social, and personal life. I work alone, I live alone, I rest alone.

Secondly, don’t you think the camera is a way for a photographer to separate themselves from the actual moment, the people, the experience? Again, symbolism for being disconnected, an outsider. We are always on the rim of the experience, hoping to blend in and not to distract our actors of the story we are documenting. It’s a fine and delicate dance and many people can’t do this.

The files, or film, are taken home and we spend hours and hours alone editing, and re-editing. If we are lucky enough to have a strong body of work we then begin submission. Hours spent researching contacts and countless emails. Hopefully you’ll have 1/10 respond with some sort of interest in seeing more. It’s emotionally draining, as you send your images out, that incorporate your heart and soul – to only be rejected.

I have always had an idea of the lonely life of an artist or photographer but it hasn’t been until the last months that I’ve really been able to culminate these thoughts and realizations into words.

These days I find myself grappling with the fact that this may be my route for the rest of my existence. I am a huntress and like all good hunters, the task must be tackled alone. Can this be possible? Can I continue through with disregard for my emotional and mental need for companionship, friendships, family?

There is the post tour depression, I’m not going to lie one damn bit to you about it. I’ve slept the entire weekend away and now I feel like I just popped out of it at 4 am on Monday morning. Friends tell me, “How can you be depressed, look at what you have! Look what you have done!”

Do you remember in my interview when I talked about when I came “home” I saw how much shit is in our lives here and how “little we have”. By comparison to these people with nothing and their lives seem so complete as they have something that majority of us in the West don’t have. Something that has been lost in our culture and society. It’s hard for me not to sit here, typing, editing, drinking my tea seeing what I don’t have. It will be worse when I go back to Shanghai. No friends, no family, no lover, no real community.

I’ve tried to convince myself for years that I can live, survive, and be content without the previous mentioned. That my heart can deal with the solitude and the loneliness. But these sleepless nights, with my pillows wrapped around me and a death grip around my teddy bear…I begin to doubt my strength to continue on, alone.

The goal for the remainder of the year is to find a sweet balance, in everything.

Are you tired of hearing about the loneliness yet? Well, no one really writes about it, and too many blogs stop after the riding. For you all looking for my cycling stories, I left off on the Assey Plateau in Kazakhstan – which will be the one year anniversary next week. We are going to get back on track with a cycling post!

I thought I’d share a story about the below photo, as I edit some images of Central Asia.
There was a small village that I stayed at for two days in Uzbekistan, near the Tajikistan border. This man dancing in front of the camera was one of those men I despise being around. The first conversation developed around my personal life and he asked me if I had a disease and if that is why I was child’less.

Of course it’s a common question, but only out there would men be so rude and nasty to me about it. What if I did have a disease, what if I can’t conceive…what does he care…he needed to ask this question in front of other men.

This story isn’t so unrelated to the current post. An outcast; disconnected; a stranger.

I’ll slowly begin to transform this blog into stories with images, perhaps one photograph and my inner ramblings.