The Cathedral of the Homeless Saint

The Cathedral of the Homeless Saint | © Preston Lewis Thomas

Faith.

The belief in the existence of a truth we cannot truly know. 
Paradox tumbling from the sky like rain… again.
 
I believe in Faith, which is to say that I believe in belief.
 
But I am not a religious man, at least not in the general sense. I do not believe in the idea of an omnipotent and jealous being watching over me. I do not believe for even one minute that we were “born in sin” or in the idea that we must somehow atone for being born in the first place. I believe that Heaven and Hell are opposite sides of the same coin, and that perspective is everything.
 
I believe that for better or for worse, we are the architects of our lives, and these lives are what we continually make of them.
 
I believe in Faith.
 
The artist Laurie Anderson once spoke of walking and falling. The idea that with each step, we fall forward slightly and then catch ourselves from falling. We do this over and over - and this is what we call walking.
 
The act of falling forward and Faith that we will catch ourselves from falling… we are motionless without it. Perhaps a lack of Faith equals paralysis.
 
I have no idea what so captivates the subject of this photograph. She sits in this bus shelter with her belongings as more than one bus passes her by. And she does not move except for the lifting of a finger to turn a page. I assume that she is holding a Bible, though the book has no outer markings. 
 
It is old and worn.

Her garments and outsized crucifix are out of context. Perfectly normal within the confines of some great church, but on this evening street, it seems as though she has wandered onto the wrong set in a movie studio.

She does not belong here.
 
My muse is homeless, and perhaps that is the falling.
Immersed in this tattered and torn book, perhaps within she will catch herself from falling.
 
Faith.

The Staring Contest

THE STARING CONTEST | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

I park next to him in the CVS lot, just across the street from Starbucks, my intended destination.
At a glance, I can see that he’s one of four kids and two adults. He looks directly at me and maintains his gaze as I walk past their vehicle. When I return, having aquired my brownie and triple espresso, he once again locks eyes on me. I decide to return the stare. Game on.

I hop in my car, close the door and instantly turn my head to face my opponent. I narrow my eyes and raise one brow, telegraphing my thoughts “you ain’t gonna win, son.”

Then, he cheats.
My adversary has no scruples.

He rests his chin on the window seal. His eyes soften and widen and he fires a laser beam – that innocent and disarming kid smile.
It’s a direct hit. He’s a sneaky little S.O.B.

I can feel the involuntary grin spreading across my face, and I instinctively reach for my camera. He sees the camera and leans forward just a bit. What a ham! I quickly make a couple of photographs. I want to show my “competitor turned new found friend” what I’ve captured, but most parents ain’t thrilled about the idea of strange men approaching them with pictures of their kids. I decide to stay put.

It then occurs to me that for the entirety of this interaction, not one other person in the car with him has paid either of us any attention.
I put a pin in this thought.

I throw him a smile.
He waves.
I wave back, and drive off.

During the short trip home, I’m visited by a tumult of thoughts. I find that I can’t shake the fact that it’s not the best time to be a young Black boy in the US of A.

A quote from the great James Baldwin comes to mind:
“It comes as a great shock… to discover that the flag to which you have pledged allegiance… has not pledged allegiance to you.”

I just want the kid to grow up.

Blessings and Light

BLESSINGS AND LIGHT | HAVANA, CUBA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

We passed her sitting on a bench just inside the gates on the Cathedral grounds. Her hands outstretched, hoping to receive. A beggar on the threshold of the house of the Lord. I stared at her as we continued inside, unsure of the proper etiquette. 8:30am and already well into the 80s, fahrenheit, that is. It only took a few short minutes for my shirt to become soaking wet and paste itself to my skin.

I stood in back of the Cathedral, quietly making photographs as services began. When the word “Oramos” (Let us Pray) was spoken, she entered, her gait slightly unsteady, but without hesitation, and walked right down the middle aisle, stopping just about center.

She bowed her head and joined the others in prayer.

“Amen…” and in the same fashion she entered, she turned right around and marched back to the doorway, then paused. She placed her hands on the door frame and leaned slightly forward into the light. I captured this moment just before she stepped back out into the world.

Outside, she took her place on the bench, and all was as it was before. Hands outstretched to passers by, hoping to receive.

A beggar on the threshold of the house of the Lord…
With Blessings.

Havana.

God Must Be A Boogie Man

GOD MUST BE A BOOGIE MAN | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

This man, homeless and finding slumber in perhaps one of the few places that gave him comfort, the entrance to a church.

For me, this circumstance juxtaposed with the words carved in stone, God Is Love, seemed ironic and cruel,
and instantly brought these haunting lyrics about the great, and troubled Charles Mingus to mind:

“He is three
One’s in the middle so unmoved
Waiting
To show what he sees
To the other two
To the one attacking so afraid
And the one that keeps trying to love and trust
And getting himself betrayed
In the plan, oh…
The divine plan
God must be a Boogie Man… ”
–Joni Mitchell, God Must Be a Boogie Man

Juxtaposition

JUXTAPOSITION | HAVANA, CUBA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

In the foreground we have two young girls on their way to school. In the background, we have a scene from Inception. This pretty much sums up the visual nature of Havana.

The city is awash in beautiful and often, massive and decaying structures created decades ago by master architects and builders. Colors weathered and worn but that still explode with a preternatural vibrance under the slightest bit of sunlight, they shine an embarrassing light on the drab, lifeless, beige existence that is so pervasive in the United States.

We’ve all seen city streets ripped apart, chunks of concrete and asphalt strewn alongside the roads while various components of infrastructure are added, removed or replaced. But when it happens in a place like Havana, it's just another work of art.
Abstract Expressionism for the People.

On another note: the skirts worn by the young girls in this photograph don’t start out that way. When the uniform first arrives, the skirt actually stops just below the knees. But as every parent knows... teenagers are gonna be teenagers, and that’s that.

The Great Lovers of La Habana

THE GREAT LOVERS OF LA HABANA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

There was a visceral tone to this second trip to Havana. Aside from the fact that practically everyone there thought I was Cubano, the people were extremely welcoming, and openly interested in who the hell we were.

The Sister in this photograph called out to me and pointed to her home. She opened the door which gave way, as so many of the structures do, to multiple thresholds, open rooftops, peeling paint, lavish colors, and strange stairwells. She pointed to my camera, beckoning me to make a photograph of all she was showing me - in a very Vanna White fashion.

I was totally captivated, not by her home, but by her. I loved how forward and fearless and open she was to total strangers. Maybe not strangers at all.

I asked instead for her photograph. She laughed, at which point, Lover Boy, husband I assumed, poked his head out to see what was happening. We all just stared at each other for a minute, and then he simply embraced her and began planting kisses.

Such were our days…

Slice of Life on 63rd Street

A SLICE OF LIFE ON EAST 63RD STREET | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

They hang out on the corner of 63rd and Drexel next to an abandoned lot, waiting. The gas station across the street has an automated car wash, and they’re hoping that some of the customers will want their vehicles properly dried, and maybe a little tire dressing.

I get it.
It’s the Hustle.
They’re livin’ for the city.

In fact, I notice several cars parked diagonally in front of the lot and a mix of brothers and sisters tending to these vehicles. There isn’t a set price. There’s no service menu. Customers pretty much pay what they want.

One lady tells me, “When they come out the car wash, they cars still be wet. They have they own towels and Armor All and stuff. I mean, at least we ain’t out here tryin’ to rob or shoot nobody…”

Another adds, “I usually ask for three or four dollars, but you know, I’ll take whatever…”

I do know.
Sometimes, I’ll take “whatever”.

The conversation quickly pivots to what kind of photographer I am and one of the ladies asks whether or not I’ve ever photographed a naked woman on a couch.

I find the last part of that oddly specific, but I answer:
“Freelance”
“Yes.”

A slice of life.