Juliana's Lovely Land of Neurosis

Tara #2

2012-01-16T10:03:00.000-08:00

"Tara, Charlie, and Princess", Rockaways, NYC, 2002. Juliana Beasley

Over the last year, Bobby had left several messages on my voice mail, one an invitation to Memorial Day BBQ at Jacob Riis Park, another from both him and Tara inviting me to come out and visit. I was walking towards the Path Train, listening to my voice mails one day in March. I became concerned when I heard Bobby’s message.

"Hey, Juliana. It's Bobby! Are you in the country or are you still in France? I have some bad news. Tara was in the hospital. She’s sick. Call me when you get a chance", he said softly.

I sat down on a stoop on Mercer Street. I called him the right away. My throat felt tight.

"Juliana, we thought you weren't in the country. I would have called sooner. I got some bad news. Tara had to go the hospital and they told her she has 3-6 months to live if she don’t stop drinking. They say it’s her liver. She ain’t listening to nobody. She don’t want to hear it. She's still drinking. I don't know what to do. It's pretty serious. You still out of the country?" he asked.

“Can’t you talk to her about this?” I said. “Is there something I can do?”

“I think you should just come out here. I don’t know how long she got”.

I heard a shrill of laughter in the back round.

“Hey, Bobby. Who you talking to?” I heard Tara’s voice in the back round.

"Look, Juliana,” Bobby said. “Tara just walked in the door. She don’t want to talk about any of this stuff. So, don't bring it up.”

“Hey Tara. It’s Juliana. Do you want to talk to her? Here take the phone.” He sounded exhausted. Tara depleted almost everyone of patience despite her childish charm.

"Hey, Juliana you still in France? When are you coming back? Where are you anyway? When you coming out here?" she asked like a toddler shooting questions rapid fire, one after the other, without necessarily any interest in the answers.

Tara sounded giddy, excited and emotionally unavailable. I could imagine her holding her mainstay, a plastic big gulp cup, endlessly filled with beer, and eternally attached to her right hand.

“I’m coming out soon. I’m busy with work. I’ll try to make it out there in a couple of weeks”, I said. I had every intention of going out there but never did.

Bobby had given me fair warning. Tara had a death sentence. She was 41, she would be 42 this year and she was dying of cirrhosis of the liver. That was the last time I heard her voice.

**********

For the last seven years, traveled out to the Rockaways. I brought my camera to photograph many of people whom had shared themselves and their lives in front of the lens. Only twenty miles from midtown Manhattan or a one hour trip on the subway, whenever, I get off the train at the last stop, I felt like I have I had taken a trip to another country, maybe even another planet. With the passage of time, many city neighborhoods, now gentrified, were left indistinguishable to others, but not Rockaway Park. Many of the buildings and the people I portrayed in my project felt like abandoned relics of another past decade. Many of the locals seemed hermetically sealed in a bubble, cut off from the rest of NYC. During my time spent out there, I witnessed the real devastation of poverty, mental illness and addiction upon the lives of my friends and acquaintances. They were occupied with the survival of day-to-day life. Colleen’s daughter gets pregnant again, Bryan dies way to young, and Phil was beaten near death in an act of gang violence. For many of them, anything beyond the scope of the 10-block radius was foreign territory. They read their own newspaper called “The Wave”. They are loyal to their peninsula and the various neighborhoods that make up the Rockaway’s. Liberal-minded Manhattanites represent a threat to their secular way of life and for the most part, are not welcome unless it is tourist season and they have money to spend.

I remember one summer, early morning; I walked onto the veranda of my friend Charlie’s SRO. The cool air from the ocean wrapped around my body and activated my senses. I was surprised at how well rested and limber my body felt. I had slept on the floor in Charlie’s room the night before. He woke me several times during the night, “Juliana. Hey, stop snoring.”

Two older men, sitting on beat up office chairs on the porch wished me a good morning. I had gotten to know them through past visits. As much as they seemed fond and accepting of my untimely visits, the strange old camera that I carried around my neck, and my endless probing questions about the neighborhood, they liked to make jokes on my account. I didn’t fit in. They smelled it and knew it.

“Where are you going?” they asked as I was walking down the stairs of the SRO.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” I responded.

“You won’t find a Starbucks out here, “ they laughed and snorted.

“Hey, I know that,” I responded defiantly, “I’m on my way to Dunkin Donuts,”

But, I knew that they were right; if there were a Starbucks in the neighborhood, I would have dropped my loyalty to D&D and in line with my city-slicker ways, would have picked up a two-dollar “doppio on ice”.

Over the years of photographing out in the Rockaway’s, I had occasionally mentioned when I would leave the country for a photo festival or a show. When I returned to the neighborhood after a long hiatus they always asked me if I had been out of the country. Beyond the blinds of their provincial and forgotten neighborhood, I often believed they imagined I lived a jet-set life, flying from one continent to another when really, I was just one state away in Jersey. Often, I was just at home with Moishe and Howard. Maybe they thought I didn’t exist at all outside of the Rockaways. I was certainly out of sight, and felt very much out of their minds when I was anywhere else.

Last winter, my life wasn’t the perfect fictitious story of an artist globe-trotting from one show to the next. Unlike, my friends and acquaintances out in the Rockaway’s might have imagined (or at least what I imagined they imagined), my life was hardly glamorous. My life was not carefree. I wasn’t flying around the world. My life was on standby. I felt more like a mouse stuck in the gelatinous glue of a sticky trap. Everything appeared lackluster. All the familiar signs were there. I was no longer in remission. I was in the middle of major depressive episode.

My antidepressant, Nardil, the fluorescent orange pills that I had been taking for the last seven years, once worked, now no longer worked. I called my psychiatrist for an appointment. I needed to be tweaked.

I went to his office in midtown Manhattan. I took the R and got off at 60^th and 5^th Avenue. I walked briskly with purpose, blinders on and eyes focused straight ahead. The irony of walking past Barney’s and the DKNY store on either side provided the wicked reminder of a time when I still had shopping privileges beyond the rare underwear or bra purchase at Kohl’s or Marshalls, of a time rid of financial worries, and of a time when I still believed that I could make a living as a working artist.

“I don’t think the Nardil is working anymore.” I said to Dr. Long. “It hasn’t been working for a long time. Anyway, didn’t we want to try to put me on Ritalin? Anyway, I remember you scored off the charts on that ADD diagnostic exam I gave you before you left the last time.”

No, surprise to me that I passed for positive since most of the books on my shelves remained half read.

“Plus, “ he added, “I think it might jump start you out of your depression”.

I was ready to take any measures not only to concentrate but to get out of bed even if it meant getting hooked on speed, at least for the time being.

Nardil presented all kinds of problems when mixed with a long list of foods and many other drugs—namely sudden death. Nardil is one of the oldest anti-depressants on the market. I have never met anyone else on the medication. The only other person I ever heard of that had been prescribed Nardil is Marilyn Monroe. This makes me feel a little more glamorous, despite the fact that she died of a fatal overdose.

I sat across from him, a large wooden desk between us. He shuffled through his notes, refreshing his memory of past trials, questioning me ever so often of my previous success or troubles with various medications. I looked at the creepy rubber band dispenser, an arm’s distance away. The transparent Lucite human head was missing the top of his skull. A clean lateral slice had left it topless, exposing a purposeful cavity: the perfect compliment to any psychiatrist’s flotsam of office supplies complimentary of pharmaceutical reps. I reached over, dipped my hand into the top of the head, pulled out a rubber band, wrapping it around my fingers while we talked.

Juliana”, Dr. Long said. “We can give it a try but you remember you have to go through a 3 week wash out period once you taper off the Nardil before I put you on a SSRI. It won’t be pleasant”.
I left elated his office elated with the prospect of new meds that possibility could lift me out of my depression. Yes, I want speed.

A Christmas for Tara #1

2012-01-11T13:11:00.000-08:00

"Tara and Charlie on Rock Boulevard", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 2002. Juliana Beasley.

I wrote this piece or actually, began to write this story about my Christmas Eve out in the Rockaways in 2010 and what led up to the events in the story last year. I never finished it, got stuck in my writing and hence, never posted it. I began to look over it today and felt the need to post it. It's needs a good edit but who cares about perfection. I miss writing so, I have come back to this piece about Tara who passed away over two years ago before she ever turned 40. She was my first friend out in Rockaway Park and oddly, I have very few photographs of her since she shunned my lens. Here goes.

“Hey Bobby”

I heard a man’s voice on the other end but I wasn’t sure if it was Bobby. Almost, several months had passed since we had last spoken on the phone.

Past noon and I was still lying in bed, tangled in-between sheets and a comforter, I was dressed in the same pair of pajamas that had become my standard indoor outfit. The Jersey City parlor level apartment, filled with inescapable natural light, original fixtures and looming sixteen-foot ceilings, rented at a price well beyond my means was littered with cardboard boxes, stacked against the walls. Six months after the movers had deposited my belongings, I was still daunted and paralyzed at the prospect of opening and dismantling the colossal disorder that doesn’t compile over several months or a year but over a lifetime. For safety and sanity purposes, all misplaced DVDs, obsolete files, and family photographs would remain under house arrest, securely and neatly sealed away in cartons, marked “Miscellaneous” with a thick black Sharpe.

My head was propped up on a pillow, turned toward and close to the window facing the street. I had discovered the precise angle, location, and position to hold my cell for perfect reception.

“Yeah, is this Juliana?” Bobby responded. “How have you been?”

Bobby is probably one of the few people I know in the Rockaway’s who hasn't changed his phone number or lost his service in the seven years since I had begun photographing a personal project out there in 2002. I could rely on him. He is probably as predictable and stable as it can get in a place where human encounters and relationships are often fleeting and short-lived. Upon my return after a couple of months break, I had become accustomed to hearing about another acquaintance or friend who had died or got up and left.

"I want to come out to the Rockaway’s for Christmas. Do you have any plans yet?"

"I think you should come out on Christmas Eve instead,” he said. We’re thinking of going over to the Kerry Hill. They’re having a free buffet. Would you like to come?”

Everything from our basic fashion sense, our interests, our back rounds, our economic class and our politics, Bobby and I were the most unlikely pair to spend time together let alone the Christmas holiday. We did have one thing in common, namely Tara That had kept us connected over the years.

Tara the shimmering enigma. Tara the bleached blonde waif. Tara who disappeared and reappeared into our of our lives with no warning. Tara who never drank enough to quench her relentless addiction. Tara who lived a life that would have broken the spirit of most people. Tara who smiled and laughed more than she ever complained. Tara who had the charisma to appeal to the benevolence of those around her.

Years would pass when I couldn’t find Tara anywhere. I’d hope to find her walking up and down Rockaway Boulevard or standing at the bar of a local pub that hadn’t 86’d her yet, but no luck. She didn’t have a phone. And she was prone to losing anything that anyone had ever given her so, I was sure that she had already lost the last piece of paper with my number written on it.

“Oh, Tara?” someone would say from the neighborhood. “Haven’t seen her around much lately.” Other man sitting at the pub, “I think I saw her last week. The last time I heard she was living with that ex-cop out in Masbeth (another neighborhood in Queens),” I always missed her by less than a week.

Then on one visit someone at Kerry Hill told me she had moved back to the neighborhood. She was staying at Bobby’s. He was letting her stay in the room he rented in a boarding house on 119th. The house had a bad reputation—whether true or not—as a den for crack addicts. I already knew several people living there or who had lived there. The place was a dump. The few renters who still remained kept heavy-duty padlocks on doors, marked with the holes and bruises of angry punching and kicking limbs.

His claustrophobic room was decorated with celebrity magazine tear sheets of Madonna at various times of her career. Now, I saw paparazzi shots of Lady Gaga. The moustache above Bobby’ lip, the mullet hairdo and his middle age appearance did not evoke an aura of top popular dance music, but instead the acid worn out hits of bands from the 70’s like the Altman Brothers.

Whenever, I was at his place, I noticed that the Venetian blinds were closed and imagined they stayed that way only because the slats were covered in a layer of dust. Beneath, Irish lucky clovers and smiling leprechaun stickers covered the windows. The tight living quarters made me curious about the exact nature of Bobby and Tara’s relationship. I assumed they shared the same fold out futon, but I never dared to ask either one of them about it.

“Can I have your phone number?, I asked him once when he called me. Finally, I could scribble down a real phone number to reach her and cross her name off the “missing persons” list in my notebook. From that point on, I could depend on Bobby to let me know where to find her.

My only commitment this year for Christmas was to make sure my dogs, Howard and Moishe got their mandatory three walks in Jersey City. According to my tradition of recent Christmas day’s past, I felt my rightful place was in the Rockaway’s with my camera.

The day before the day before Christmas arrived, I wanted to call Bobby and cancel. The thought of a two-hour trip each way on public transportation from Jersey felt nearly impossible considering that as the winter season progressed and temperatures fell, my growing lack of motivation grew and I spent more time secluded behind close doors.

I couldn’t cancel. I had to go for Bobby’s sake. I knew the last couple of months had been difficult for him. I could still hear his mournful words over the phone.

“I kiss her photos on my wall every morning and every night before going sleep. I have pictures of her all over my walls. You have to see it. Ya’ know she died on my birthday on October 1^st? How I’m going to live with that for the rest of my life?” he said during our last conversation.

I called him around 8:00.

“Bobby? It’s Juliana.”

“Are you going to cancel on me?”

“No, Bobby”, I said. “I can’t stay for long. I haven’t been feeling well and I can’t leave my dogs alone longer than 6 hours, but I am coming.”

“Are you sure now you’re coming? Are you sure?” He sounded desperate.

“Bobby, I promise. I told you I was coming out, didn’t I? I have something for you anyway.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said. I could hear the guilt in his voice.

“It’s just a photo of Tara. You’ll like it. Oh, and don’t bother buying me a bottle of Jameson’s. Just two cans of Diet Coke. I don’t want to drink.”

“Sure a can or a bottle of Diet Coke?” he asked.

“Whatever’s easier? I’ll call you when I get to Broad Channel.”

I had a plan: stay for 2 hours, 3 hours max, give my good wishes to those that I had gotten to know over the years and leave. I had a purpose: deliver a gift to Bobby. Packed safely away in my camera bag, I had a photograph of Tara, adhered to foam core and wrapped in plastic. She was smiling and standing at the water’s edge. I wrote under the photo, “Tara at the Beach”, Summer 2006.

Bungalows and No Boundaries... Speaking My Truth

2011-12-21T06:47:00.000-08:00

"Joel, Baby Joel and Stephanie On Bungalow Porch #1", Rockaways, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

I met Joel, Stephanie and "Baby Joel" (as he is called) this past summer when I went to Joanne's granddaughter's birthday party. I had never met anybody who lived in the bungalows out in the Rockaways. I went about 30 blocks away from my usual location at 116th Street in Rockaway Park. I hope to continue photographing them and other people living in the bungalows during the next year.

They were kind enough to open their door to me. Joel's parents, his brothers, his two sisters and his nephew share another bungalow in the same complex.

"Joel and Baby Joel in the Sky", Rockaways, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

"Baby Joel and Mother Stephanie #1", Rockaways, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

I am posting a loose edit. Why? Sometimes, I am afraid that I do not make the right final choice. But, I'm sure this is a common feeling amongst photographers, especially now that so much is shot in the digital world. I only get 12 shots per roll. And I'm thankful for that. It makes me focus. And I like to focus.

On another and more profound note:

I want to apologize to my readers or those of you who have kept up with me on my blog. I think I apologize at least quarterly for the same reason. I am not writing as much despite the fact that I love to write and generally, it helps me organize my thoughts and get in touch not only with my creative side but just with myself. Over the last year and a half, I have honestly considered talking very frankly about what has been going on in my life. Some of the stuff is very personal. Actually, most of it is.

In the past, I have written posts that have been brutally forthright about difficult periods (in particular my fight with clinical depression) in my life, as well as joyous ones. I have gotten good feedback. I have also received thankful responses from people going through similar problems. I'll refrain from using the word "issues". So, I hope writing with honesty about my personal struggles, as well as my successes can be of some comfort to someone reading my blog. And open a dialogue about mental illness, irony, stigmatization, inspiration and creativity.

I hesitate only because art does not support me. And how does one present oneself publicly when there is a smoke screen that everything is alright in cyberspace. Facebook is the epitome of creating a persona that is endlessly upbeat and proactive. In the photography Facebook world or network, it's important to keep up this spotless facade of daily success whether it be creatively, emotionally, or most of all financial. One must always be on top of things and informed and super Type A productive. This is by the way, not only my impression.

And yet, many of my photo friends are suffering from personal hardships. Over the last year, I know several artist friends who went on public assistance and food stamps. We don't hear those stories. These are hard working photographers including myself and yet, I still feel like there is this illusion that all is spotless and easy peasy for artists who even have a name in the business. What kind of message is this to show the aspiring young student or enthusiast who doesn't yet understand the sacrifices and endless work that goes into making a living as a photographer?

We as an audience don't see beyond the photo smiles at the gallery openings or the family events. No, one actually talks openly about the economic recession and how it has effected many of their own livelihoods. One friend and fellow blogger, Colin Pantall remarked on this discrepancy of public and private persona and how little photographers talk about the financial difficulties of working and living as a fine art photographer.

The last couple of years have also taken me on a financial and emotional roller coaster of instability. But, I hang on because I love what I do.

I asked Colin, "Should I write about my personal and financial difficulties and even my challenges with depression over a lifetime?"

My concern of a "tell-all diaristic blog" is cemented in the fact that perhaps it would put me at a disadvantage in the editorial, commercial or fine art world-- perhaps, my honesty would hurt my chances at getting the next job that would pay the bills. And so, that is my dilemma. Said and true. Sad and true.

One photographer friend told me that he came out and talked about his battle with anxiety in an interview for a blog. Sadly, he actually lost work because of the blog post and had it taken down. Should I fear the same stigmatization?

Colin's response to my question was something like-- and this is not a quote-- that if we can't be honest about ourselves or in our work "what is the point?". And I agree with that.

Are there any editors out there who would answer this question... or fellow photographers? I would love to hear your feedback.

In the meantime, Merry and Happy Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!!!

Tristan Laughing

2011-12-03T12:06:00.000-08:00

"I want to photograph you next to that house, " I said. I pointed at the modern transparent box behind the dunes.

Tristan and I were standing on the beach walking towards the stately homes that lined his beachfront neighborhood of Belle Harbor in the Rockaways. Far from the chaos and human tragedy of my usual stomping ground near 116th.

"You know they are selling that home for a couple million dollars. I don't think anyone has bought it yet. Sure, let's go over there, " he said. The sun was beginning to set.

"Tristan Palm Springs", Belle Harbor, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley

The wind came up from behind us and his red hair flew into his face. Every so, often he would scoop up a swath and push it gently away from his eyes. The kindness and tenderness of this gesture seemed to reveal that he not only had a longstanding close relationship with the fiery curly mass on his head but, that he undoubtedly showed it the respect one might give a prized trophy.

As we got closer to the house, a middle-aged woman appeared from inside. She waved at us, smiling and called out as if she recognized us.

"Do you know her? " I asked Tristan.

"No, but she probably thinks she knows me. She probably thinks I'm Shaun White. This happens all the time."

He could have been right. When we approached her she was grinning and greeted Tristan as if she already knew him. Her face was ruddy and she seemed strangely overjoyed.

"Sure, come in and take photographs", she said after she told us that she had just moved in. I didn't expect such a welcoming gesture from a stranger even if she was Tristan's neighbor.

On The Edge of Extinction

2011-11-28T12:20:00.000-08:00

"Barbara at the Water's Edge", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

Gabby and Tito

2011-11-20T06:40:00.000-08:00

Gabby Getting Hair Dyed, Rockaways, NYC, 11/11. Juliana Beasley

Story to come soon. In the bungalows from my new work out in the Rockaways. Running out the door to walk Howard and then presenting my work in Lori Grinker's class at ICP this afternoon.

Time for a Jersey Shore Beach Break

2011-11-17T18:16:00.000-08:00

Slurpee Machine, Jersey Shore, New Jersey, 2009. Juliana Beasley.

Went into the neg archive today and scanned some stuff from 2009. Here is just a sampling. I'm sure it will bring back good memories of warmer days.

Tristan on Mattress

2011-11-14T16:23:00.000-08:00

Tristan on Mattress, Belle Harbor, NYC, NY, 10/11. Juliana Beasley

Tristan in Golden Room

2011-11-12T11:34:00.000-08:00

Tristan In Golden Light, Belle Harbor, NY, 10/11. Juliana Beasley.

Amaris Where Are You?

2011-11-02T17:40:00.000-07:00

"Amaris. The Day We Met", Mana Contemporary, Jersey City, NJ, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

I met Amaris at Mana Contemporary in Jersey City over a month ago at an opening. I took this photo when we met.

She wrote me today.

"Uh, well I'm trapped in high school. My life pretty much revolves around art and rock & roll. I'm all about the band life."

Demons in the Closet

2011-11-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

I need to call my Aunt Jeanie. This morning I received a correspondence with a young woman who had worked with her, helping her organize her belongings in her beautiful home in Hyde Park in Chicago. She knew about me and I knew little about her. She said she knew about my mother. I felt like a worm that had been uncovered from underneath a heavy stone.

My Mom at Med School Graduation, Philadelphia, PA, 196?. Beasley Archive

And then I wrote a separate e-mail to my friend, Jason. The two correspondences connected in my fleeting mind.

"My demons take pills, read to many books, have to many degrees and accolades framed and hung on walls. They have no social grace or morality or integrity. They live in depravation and destitution. They are fun and like to dance in circles and are always the center of attention. They leave their children sitting on the curb after school waiting for 2 hours after all the other children have been picked up by their parents. Then they show up in a fierce red TR6, classical music blasting,high on Ritalin and throw you in the jumper seat in the back because the dog is sitting in the passenger seat. They don't take you home. They take you on a 2 hour joy ride through Brooklyn and deposit you at the nursing station in the emergency room of some hospital where you wait another couple of hours.

Yes, you are right. at least, I know my demon. She is dead in body but still alive in spirit and occupying my being. I either
kill her off once and for all or i learn to love her because she is me.

My demons are cute as a button but selfish as all hell. They will will trick you with charm and murder you with
false hopes of tender love and friendship."

Victoria and Howie

2011-10-22T08:30:00.000-07:00

These two have been inseparable since day one. They are two of a kind. They play ball together, they swim together... they might as well be connected at the waist. I never met two others that were meant to be together more than Victoria and Howie.

Victoria and Howie on Aubergine, Jersey City, NJ, 2007?, Juliana Beasley

This photo was taken shortly after I found Howie abandoned and tied up under a bench in our neighborhood park. He was still just a pupster

Victoria On Aubergine

2011-10-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Victoria on Aubergine, Jersey City, NJ, 2007?. Juliana Beasley

Photo of the week. Must take more photos of Victoria.

Gabriella Gomez-Mont Must Carry The Torch for Mexico in 2012!

2011-10-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

Gabriella Gomez-Mont

Hi All!

I have just received some incredible news and felt the importance of sharing it with you. My friend Gabriella Gomez-Mont, a cultural inspiration and leader has been nominated to carry the torch for Mexico in London in 2012 Olympic Games!

I think this is wonderful. We need more people involved in the arts and who support the arts to be visible in the mainstream. We need to get our cause out there. Something simple here about Gabriella. I have a larger bio at bottom of post.

Gabriella Gomez-Mont is a cultural promoter, writer, filmmaker and TED Senior Fellow. She is simply someone

who cares about the arts and has provided guidance and support to other artists including myself for many years. She gives opportunities to artists that otherwise could not afford to participate in art projects. This is just the basics for now.

I am asking you to vote for for Gabriella. And ASAP! Below, you can read why we need to vote for her as artists and art lovers. But, first let's not waste our time. We only have till 11pm EST to get our vote out there.

It is incredibly simple. You just click on the link.

http://samsungolimpico.com.mx/

Voting requires no registration, it is only two easy steps (less than30 seconds) and it seems one can vote

from other countries as well.

In fact, you can even vote several times if you do so from a different IP or both your phone and a laptop

for example.

Pass the word around! Thanks!!!

Now, about Gabriella Gomez-Mont!

Gabriella Gomez-Mont is a cultural promoter, writer, filmmaker and TED Senior Fellow. She has received various recognitions and awards for her work in various fields, as well as helping promote creative excellence in Mexico.

In the year 2000 she received a year-long grant at Fabrica, the creative laboratory and art center based in Italy. In the year 2001 she worked in the editorial department of the Aperture Photography Foundation, in New York. In 2002 Gabriella returned to Mexico after receiving the Jóvenes Creadores grant that the Mexican government gives to young artists, and then, in 2003, one of six grants given by Teratoma (a group composed of many renowned artist, art historians, critics, anthropologists, etc., based in Mexico) for an intensive and exclusive year-long course dealing with curating contemporary art and critical theory imparted by important figures of the national and international cultural arena.

As a visual artist Gabriella has been part of exhibitions in Europe, Japan, the USA and Mexico; and her work has been published in various magazines and books such as “From Chaos To Order and Back” by Electa. She has also done creative work for companies such as MTV International, Nike, Benetton and the WWF.

As a writer, she has collaborated with national and international publications such as Colors (Italy), Step Inside Design (New York), Contemporary (UK), Eye (UK), Acido Surtido (Argentina), -ism (Holand), Luna Cornea (Mexico), Fahrenheit (Mexico), Travesias (Mexico), Código Postal (Mexico), etc. She is also part of the editorial board of Replicante and Fahrenheit magazine, and Gabriella was also associate editor of the Colors Issue on Mexican Telenovelas (Soap Operas) and guest editor for a world-wide Vice Magazine special issue on Mexico City. She has also worked as a producer for editorial projects for The New York Times, Culture & Travel, Vogue Homme, Colors Magazine and visiting international artists.

In the year 2004 she founded Tóxico: Cultura Contemporanea and Cine Abierto (dedicated to promoting independent cinema). In that same year Gabriella co-founded Laboratorio Curatorial 060, an experimental collective made up of artists, philosophers, art historians and architects that are interested in questioning the ideas that define and contain contemporary cultural practices. LC 060 has created projects for many of Mexico´s most important cultural institutions such as the Carrillo Gil Contemporary Art Museum, Art & Idea, CANAIA, etc. LC 060´s latest (and running) project has earned both national and international grants for it´s production (such as the Prince Claus Fund from Holland, and FONCA from Mexico ) and was recently awarded first place in the BEST ART PRACTICE AWARD, a coveted international prize given by the Italian government for the best experimental curatorial project of the last 5 years.

In May 2009 she was selected as one of 25 international TED Fellows 2009, and is now also a TED Senior Fellow 2010-2013.

And she is now filming her first feature-length documentary with the support of the FOPROCINE national cinema grant.

Writing, Writing, Not Writing. Just Start.

2011-10-02T05:45:00.000-07:00

The Operating Theater

No good can come of this. Photograph, Lauren Simonutti.

OK, I did say full disclosure in the form of self-portraits and writing. I said that in my last post. And I am not delivering this week or at least not yet. Instead of looking inwards. I am looking outside of myself and not necessarily with any objectivity.

Self-portraits... Now, that feels a lot more challenging and daunting than taking photographs of someone sitting in front of me. Just me alone with my camera. Vulnerable performer or liar fool.

Who will I be? Solitude, reflection, no distractions. Just me talking to my camera. My soliloquy, my silence, my boredom, my melancholy and mania. An inescapable meditation.

How do those self-portrait photographers do it? If you are not presenting yourself as someone other than yourself, how do you be yourself with yourself and present yourself as yourself? Do I seem shallow here? Or maybe just in some mild form of a demented state about who I am and what this person "Juliana" does alone?

I have surely done my time alone. Probably far more than most people I know. But, somehow when I do not share the stage with the other actors, I am a little bewildered. I am lost without someone holding up that mirror that reflects and shines an interdependent relationship of shared personalities.

Sure, I know what I do when I am alone. Probably too much staring at the walls. But, my concern in the process and the product is that it will only be a caricature of myself. I can only imagine myself positioning my body and contorting my face in front of the camera while counting down the seconds before the self-timer sets off the shutter.

This gives me a whole new respect for photographers whom have sat alone with the camera. I'm thinking in particular of the photographer Lauren Simonutti's body of work. I learned about her recently when I found out about her precious edition of hand made books called "No Such Thing As Silence". I would love to write more about her but if you really want to read a great blog interview with her and get the inside story, you must go to Colin Pantall's Blog (which by the way is eclectic, well-written and just one of my favorite blogs.) A good read and yes, inspiring.

I will say one thing: this book comes with feathers and bells attached.

Right now, for me, the starting is the hardest part.

So, return to the external. Last week, I entered new territory. I photographed all weekend and did not take my Rollei TLR with me. No, film. No, big bracket with big flash. No, 30 rolls of 120 film. I put my Canon 5D and flash in a bag filled with batteries and memory cards. So, light and carefree. So, modern!

Yes, I actually spent the weekend as an analog traitor. I shot digital and I loved it. I felt naughty and cheap and very very bad. I felt like a junkie and an explorer on a new adventure... so many gigs of storage, so many clicks of the shutter... and never ever never enough images.

I woke up on Saturday around 11am. Before sitting up in bed, I had rationalized all the reasons of why I should not gather my lightweight equipment and take a two hour commute by subway out to the Rockaways. The best reason I could come up with-- but it would suffice-- was that it was already too late in the day.

By 3:30pm, I waiting in the local Target for my 4X6" print order to be ready for pick up. I wanted to arrive with photographs to give to my friends. When I got on the Path train in Jersey City headed to WTC where I transfer to the A train out to Queens, it was close to 4pm. I had missed most of the good light.

Diana and Mikey were throwing a birthday party for one of their tenant's little boy who lived in their bungalows. I knew the mother Gabby since before she even became pregnant with little Angelo. I remember the first time I met her four or five years ago. She was sitting on a beat up bed, texting and far away on her cell phone while her friends laughed and partied in a small room in a boarding house near the beach. She looked like a 14 year old kid even though she probably was 18. Her face was angelic.

I looked for Gabby for years. I wanted to photograph her again. I had heard from someone in the neighborhood that she had gotten pregnant and had a baby boy.

"Angelo and Gabby", Rockaways, NYC, 9/11. Juliana Beasley

I didn't find her until recently when I learned she rented and lived with her son in one of the bungalows. No matter who I asked or where I looked I could not find her. I should have known that the past often catches up to the present. Chance meetings and reunions happen in their own time... the Rockaways does not work on a schedule and the time table that most people apply to their lives does not exist here. Therefore, when you work in chaos, you have to adopt the rules of chaos... there just aren't any rules.

I found Gabby and Angelo, one day by chance when I was invited to one of my friend's daughter's birthday party in July. There she was just sitting on the porch outside of the bungalow, baby blue paint chipping off the facade. She was smoking a cigarette. She still looked like a kid. Time compressed and I felt like I had never lost her.

I finally arrived in the Rockaways, however, late I was. And it's never ever a disappointment however late or early I show up. Sure there are unpleasant days out there but I always meet someone new or learn something that had alluded me for years. I always feel enlightened on my 2 hour trip back to Jersey contemplating a day out in the Rockaways while I sit on the subway eating a bag of Cheetos under a florescent lights.

Oh, Nicole's Cha Cha shoes. Yes, you can find her out there in the neighborhood where she lives in a bungalow with her husband. They are newly weds. Close to 9pm, she was putting herself together for a night out working as a female impersonator in a club somewhere in Manhattan. We walked out the door together. She pulled up her hot pink spandex top and exposed a little cleavage.

"Be careful on the subway platform, " I said as we parted.

"Don't worry, honey. Don't let anyone fuck with me because I will fuck you up."

"Nicole's Cha Cha Heels", Rockaways, NYC, 9/11. Juliana Beasley

The party was winding down when I arrived. I took some portraits. The sun went down and the partygoers began to disperse. I walked a couple blocks over to my new favorite pub in the neighborhood and befriended the bartender, Sharon. I finally met my Rockaway's kindred spirit. Years of traveling out to the peninsula and finally, I met someone who really got me. And I got her. We knew all the same people. She is boisterous, tough, and a great storyteller. She can "man" her bar and kindly discipline the most difficult of irate drunk customers into submission. I look forward to our next meeting.

You gotta' "ring them bells".

Going Back to Mexico In My Mind or Full Disclosure

2011-09-23T11:06:00.001-07:00

"Joshua's Sister", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Yesterday, I had the wonderful pleasure of having Mexican photographer, Eunice Adorno come out to my hometown, Jersey City for a visit. The last time I saw Eunice was in Mexico City in the summer of 2010, when she was my student in a workshop that Tema Stauffer and I taught in collaboration with Toxico Cultura.

I am very elated and proud of Eunice! She has a book called Fraum Blaum about women Mennonites living in northern Mexico coming out shortly. In Spanish the book is called "Las Mujeres Flores" or in English "The Flower Women : the editor is Pablo Ortiz Monasterio and Fernando Gutierrez and is published with Fabrica. The images are very intimate and the color palette very soothing.

Cover of "Las Mujeres Flores" by Eunice Adorno.

Now, Eunice and her dog, Cleto are living temporarily in New York and she is partaking in a residency at the International Studio and Curatorial Program. And to top it off she is off to Holland in October, to take part in the prestigious Joop Swart Masterclass. Wowsie! What an amazing year for such a talented and young photographer.

I am looking forward to her next visit and next time with Cleto who can keep my little Howard (Howard definitely needs a FB page) company, now that he is an only child.

Check in:

I wish I could put a torch to most of my life right now. In fact, as an experiment and because I feel that I feel compelled to document the state of my life visually... I will take some photographs to post next time. Because I hope that soon my situation will change. And I hope that the state of it right now will soon be a memory only visible in photographs.

I also believe that since things feel completely impossible right now (or simply feel that way) that I want to expose myself.

Why?

No, this isn't a shaming masochistic technique to haul ass and clean up and stop avoiding... but a full disclosure or a substantial disclosure of me right now as I am.

AGAIN WHY?

I wouldn't ask less from any of my subjects so, why should I pretend to be anything more that I am. Yes, the shit has hit the fan and it's time to accept it as it is right now because as said, it will change. Slowly, but it will change.

Will this help my career as a photographer? Could it damage it? These are some of the questions that have come up over the last year when speaking to close friends. Only time can tell. I'll go with my instincts.

It's time for self-portraits. Anyone, with skills in this realm... please, contact me through Facebook. I have some questions on how to set it up, etc. I have questions.

In the meantime, I still have the fantasy of my vacation in Mexico with Victoria over 5 years ago. And so, here are some more photographs to keep me out of harm's way or rather just away from the present. Here are more images about Joshua and his family in the south of Mexico

Thank the Universe that I will be photographing this weekend. And in the spirit of all the young photographers out there and even my contemporaries, I will be shooting with my Canon dSLR and not with my Rollei TLR... how avant garde... right?

"Joshua's Brother and Sister Upside Down", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"Joshua's Other Brother in Bed", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Mexico Series on Hold

2011-09-17T10:22:00.000-07:00

"Victoria at Parent's Sink", Redding, CT, 9/11. Juliana Beasley.

I want to thank all the wonderful people in my life who got me through the last couple of weeks; in particular, the last week. Without your support, things would have been much rougher. As most of my family, close friends, Van Vorst dog run comrades, acquainances, and Facebook friends know, my dear Moishe died this past week. I also managed to somehow apply for a grant at the same time; again, without the help of friends like Benj (my dear cousin who has just came into my life and miraculously, at the right time), Drew, Victoria, Jeffrey, Jacques, Amy and John this would have been impossible. I realized how fortunate I am to have such wonderful, caring, interesting, smart and unique people in have in my life.

Now, life goes on. I am spending the weekend out in Connecticut with Victoria at her parents home. It's nice and slow here. I get the chance to step back from my life in Jersey City. It's nice to see Victoria's family. It's hard not see Moishe taking in the country air and sniffing around the ivy and shrubs but I am blessed to have little Howie here who adorns me with an excess of affection and kisses upon the moment I wake.

I took these photos last night of Victoria and the kitchen at her parents place with my new camera apps. I feel the need to be creative even if it means picking up my Android phone and taking crappy low res photos. It's one way that I can move out of myself and connect with the outside world and incorporate it into something visual, something that I can share with others.

I couldn't decide whether I like the tighter shot of the kitchen counter or the wider so, I have posted both.

"Kitchen Counter in Redding 1", Redding, CT, 9/11. Juliana Beasley.

"Victoria in Kitchen #1", Redding, CT, 9/11. Juliana Beasley.

"Kitchen Counter in Redding 2", Redding, CT, 9/11. Juliana Beasley.

Mexico Part 3

2011-09-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

"Victoria After Shower", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley.

"Victoria in Shower", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley.

"Victoria Balancing Beer Can on Her Head", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley.

"Victoria and Beer", Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley.

I want to escape. Not forever. Just now. These photos are sweet reminders of past getaways.

I Miss You Mexico Part Two

2011-09-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

More of Mexico photos from 2006. It's amazing how time passing can change your mind about how you perceive photographs. These following photographs I took randomly during my vacation with Victoria along the Yucatan Riviera. I will return to posting photographs of the small reportage I did on Joshua and his family. For now these.

I really miss traveling and the excitement of all senses... picking up my camera and recording it and editing with my mind's eye when I snap the shutter.

I miss Mexico. I think I can write that again and again.

"She Caught My Eye", Yucatan Coast, Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"The Cake", Yucatan Coast, Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"She Showed Me Her Bedroom", Yucatan Coast, Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Back to Mexico. I Miss You!

2011-09-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a photograph that I took of Victoria from our trip to Mexico about 5 years ago. I love those pictures and she is so wonderful in front of the camera. And then I came upon these.

"Joshua on His Couch", Yucatan Coast, Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

I had brought my first dSR with me-- a Canon 3D. I had only shot with it maybe once before and I thought the trip down to the Yucatan Coast would be a great opportunity to pull it out of my Domke bag. After all, I knew I would have some time alone while Victoria went scuba diving. And it has just become impossible to go on any trip without wanting to stop the car and get out and take a photograph. My brain spins into creative mayhem once I get outside the urban jungle.

I was riding a bicycle along the dirt roads of a small fishing village not far from the Belize border. I passed a soccer field and saw a group of young teenagers training and suddenly, a fair skin kid with reddish hair caught my eye. He was completely out of place, as much as I was. He was lanky and taller than the rest of the Mexican kids and his skin was burnt. At first, I thought he might be a girl. I was intrigued.

I approached him and began to speak to him in the Spanish I had concocted from years of Italian lessons and French conversations. He responded in English.

"My name is Joshua," he told me.

I sat down next to him on the sidelines and he eagerly asked me many questions about the United States and specifically, New York City.

When I was getting ready to leave, he invited me to his house to meet his family the next day.

Here are some of the pictures I took. I had previously posted one of the images. More to come. I miss Mexico.

"Portrait of Joshua's Mother as a Young Woman", Yucatan Coast, Mexico, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Off to the Party

2011-09-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

I met the woman in pink and her friend on the day of her wedding. A couple of weeks later, I was back in the Rockaway's and this time, with my cousin, Benj who was visiting me from Toronto. They told me they were off to a party.

It's funny I have so much to say and yet, I feel like I don't know where to begin. Oh, yes, I know where to start. I will say this... it's good to have family and friends. Especially, when you need them.
,
To Moishe:

Every day that is left and that we spend together, I have promised you something that will make you understand how much I love you.

"Off to The Party", Rockaways, NYC, Sumer 2011. Juliana Beasley

End of Season #2

2011-09-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

"Tristan #1", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, Summer 2012. Juliana Beasley

"Little Girl with Doll in Stroller", Rockaways, Queens, NYC. Summer, 2011. Juliana Beasley

End of the Season

2011-08-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

"Skateboarders Under Elevated Subway Track", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 8/11. Juliana Beasley

I photographed these two young skateboarders under the elevated tracks in the Rockaways one late afternoon. They weren't from the neighborhood and lived--I believe-- out in the Far Rockaways.

I owe them a photo. So, Chris and friend... just to let you know, I will be back out there in about a week and I will leave a photograph with your friend, Jose. Thanks for taking the time to pose for me. And I hope you did get flooded out and you are safe.

Juliana

Vite! Toute suite! A Quick Taste of Summer.

2011-08-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

"Young Hotel Maids", Quebec, Canada. Summer 2011. Juliana Beasley.

Here are a couple of photos I took recently this summer. No, words... just photos. Each one deserves an explanation. For now, they stand alone without words and hopefully tell a story.

A couple of words.

I went to Quebec for a one week holiday last week.

I bought a new digital camera and am enjoying it.

The summer went too fast.

"Eviction Truck", Rockaways, NYC, Summer 2011. Juliana Beasley

"Young Woman in Front of Walmart", Quebec, Canada, Summer 2011. Juliana Beasley.

Year of the Purge

2011-07-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

"Boy #1 at Storage with Back of Car Seat", Jersey City, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley. He was moving out with his older brother. Him and his brother had stored the back car seat in a storage room.

I would love to spend several hours working on an intricate blog post about how horrible my move out of storage was yesterday. Blow by Blow how the day unfolded. Unfortunately, as some bloggers know, time does not permit me. I will say one thing on this passage to freedom: getting lost on the Jersey Turnpike during rush hour will make even the most peaceful of devotees boil over into a fit of road rage.

This is the year of the purge. Now, instead of two storage spaces, I am a proud owner of one very organized storage space far out in Hudson County. Chances are I won't visit my storage space for another 10 years. However, all the stuff... photographs, books, clothes, kitchen ware and the boxes assigned as miscellaneous are no longer in some vague and esoteric holding space. All is now packed sky high in my parlor level apartment. As a friend said to me upon seeing the piles of banker boxes and Hefty Heavy Duty bags, "thank God you have a large apartment.

"Storage Spaces #1", Hudson County, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley

"Storage Belongings #1",,Jersey City, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley. Bag of recyclable bottles, Rocking Horse, and filled garbage bag were some of the few random items stored for one owner. These were the belongings being removed from one storage space yesterday.

"Storage Space Elevators", Jersey City, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley

Now, comes the worst part or the selling, haggling and then finally disposing the remnants of whatever doesn't exchange hands from me as seller to buyer. The point is to get rid of it as quickly as possible. The point is to ignore subconscious infantile feelings of loss, pain and suffering that can come with the emotional attachment of material items or the disdain of an object that once held so much love and promise. Soldier onward! Ruthless I must be!

"Phil in U-Haul", Hudson County, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley

I am downsizing and downgrading. "More is less"is a cliche fits but fits here. All those Buddhist and self-help books on tackling procrastination, ADD, and organizational tactics for the right brained challenges that plague me have planted a seed of freedom and sunshine that I hope will greet me on the other side of the chaos.

Pictures of chaos to come soon. I was waiting for the morning light to take the photos.

"My Mom's Film Projector", Hudson County, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley. Keep! This stayed in storage.

"My Gum Ball Machine", Hudson County, NJ, 7/2011. Juliana Beasley. Keep! This stayed in storage.

Thanks to dear friends who lift heavy boxes, drive U-hauls, and are left brained and no how to pack a storage space for best access. Without you guys, I would be sitting in a pile of shit. Literally!

Sisters

2011-07-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

"Lisa", Rockaways, NYC. Spring, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

I met Lisa and Sandra four or five years ago out in the Rockaways. They are sisters.

I took these photos one day at the church where their foster father Pastor Gary presides in the Rockaways. I wish I had more time to spend with them, but they were rushing off with their family to lunch after services.

"Sandra", Rockaways, NYC. Spring, 2011. Juliana Beasley.

Joanna' Summer Luau Party!

2011-06-21T13:33:00.000-07:00

"Baby John Running", Rockaway Park, NYC, June 2011. Juliana Beasley

I had a 10 hour photo blast shooting two Saturday's ago at Joanna's 8th birthday party at her Uncle Mike's house in the Rockaways. My work in progress, a very new work in progress that began in the last week of May revolves around the Water sisters, their children and their children's children and their friends. The work will be a part of a group show entitled "Family Values" in a couple of weeks at Michael Mazzeo Gallery in Chelsea which opens on July 7th.

"Jean", Rockaways, NYC, June 2011. Juliana Beasley

I am excited to show off this work so early in the process.

"Joanne and her Grandson", Rockaways, NYC, June 2011. Juliana Beasley

Meanwhile, my book dummy of "Last Stop: Rockaway Park" is close to being bound together... By whom? By me!!!

Aloha!

Baby Toe Tag

2011-06-02T15:54:00.000-07:00

"Baby Toe Tag", Rockaway Park, NYC, 05/11, Juliana Beasley.

I went out to the Rockaways a couple of Sundays ago with no particular agenda, just a camera, flash and film in a knapsack. I ended up sitting on a stool in a local pub that I often frequent when the owner, Carmel told me that Margie's (one of the bartenders who works there) granddaughter was being baptized that afternoon. I jumped on a local bus and scurried down several streets and into a church full of babies and their respective families sitting in pews. I had just missed the baptism. Just like I had missed my nephew's one hot summer day over a decade ago.

"Baby Ava in Her Baptism Gown", Rockaway Park, NYC, 05/11. Juliana Beasley

Little Ava had just been blessed. Margie invited me to a party after the baptism. I got in a big SUV with the family and was shuttled to an anonymous reception hall.

Slowly, the room began to fill. Ava was taking a break, sleeping in her stroller before all the guests arrived. I looked down at her little foot and noticed we had something in common. We like to hang one foot out from under the blanket when we sleep. I hear it's called the Irish foot.

"Photo Album and Baby", Rockaway Park, NYC, 05/11. Juliana Beasley.

More photos coming soon. Just gotta' warm up that scanner.

Pictures Without Stories?

2011-05-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

"Father and Son at Bar Mitzvah", Paris, France, 2008. Juliana Beasley

Here are a couple of mixed random shots that I took in 2008 with my beloved Contax T2. Each photo has a story. If I don't know the story, I can make it up. I have no other choice. Give me a picture, any picture and I will tell you there is a story to be told.

May 18th, 2011

Today, when I left my apartment, I shoved the my Contax T-2 into my knapsack and headed towards the Path train, making my way from Jersey City to the WTC stop in Manhattan. I'm not the sort of photographer that carries a camera with me at all times. I have special days when I plan to photograph something somewhere and then I have the other days. Sometimes on those other days, perfectly absurd and ironic and beautiful moments have appeared and happened before my eyes. There I am, empty handed and thrust into a storm of regrets, a world of ghostly photographs that never would be and never were.

"Flowers and Purse", Paris, France, 2008. Juliana Beasley

The excuses:

My make-up case and gel already weighed me down.

Did I have to choose between my personal journal, my agenda, my "project idea" notebook, my i-pod?

Oh, yes, my umbrella. It might rain later.

A hoodie. It might get chilly later if I stay out past sunset.

And I couldn't leave out my bottle of Diet Coke or Poland Springs or that extra large bottle of Ibuprofen. God only knows, I could get a headache at any given moment.

The camera was too bulky. I couldn't do it. I could easily convince myself that the chances of the lost photo op were much too slim. So, why bother? I could always take the camera with me tomorrow when I wasn't rushing out the door late on my way to an important appointment.

Out in the streets of Manhattan, I had already forgotten the small titanium bodied beauty at the bottom of my bag strapped over my shoulders. I went uptown to the upper east side to the podiatrist's office and then downtown to Chelsea to do some errands: the copy shop for laser prints, Staples to buy a stapler, Adorama to order some 4X6" prints for some of my subjects. I turned up the volume on my i-Pod and the Pet Shop Boys carried me effortlessly from one task to the next.

"New Jersey Businessman in Subway Station", NYC, NY, 2008. Juliana Beasley

By the time, I returned to my neighborhood in Jersey City and exited the Path Station, the sky was a surly gray. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pulled out my umbrella, prepared for what looked like a downpour.

I walked up Mercer towards Jersey and half way down the block, I noticed an older man with dyed black hair and very high cheek bones eyeballing me. He was sitting in car in the driver's seat like a taxi driver waiting for a customer to come out of a building. His slender figure was accentuated under a loose blue satin jacket that matched the color of the interior of the car. I stared back, smiled and kept walking until several stoops later I set down my knapsack on one of the steps. I unzipped my bag and for a moment, I hoped my camera was in my bag. I worried that perhaps, I had only dreamt packing it away with me that morning before leaving the apartment.

I reached inside and felt the compact case and pulled it out. I got it!

"Abandoned Bungalow in the Rockaways", Queens, NYC, 2008. Juliana Beasley

Spazio Labo Brings Photography Workshops to New York!!

2011-05-17T16:41:00.000-07:00

Photos from last year's workshop 2010 by Erica McDonald.

I recently found out about "Photography Workshops in New York City" from fellow friend and photo comrade Erica McDonald when she asked me to come and present my work during a workshop she is co-teaching with Andrew Sullivan. Others presenters include Amy Stein, Spencer Platt, and Amy Touchette. How's that for variety?

This is the second year that under the umbrella of Erica's very multi-faceted photo organization, DEVELOP teams up with the Italian photography association, Spazio Labo to teach a documentary workshop from May 22nd to May 28th. Spazio Labo is also offering two other photography workshops from May 4th to June 5th. Just a note here: The DEVELOP link here is the You Tube Page. Erica has informed me that the DEVELOP website will be up soon... so, hold onto your hats kids! But, what a teaser!

Spazio Labo’ – Center of photography- is a cultural non profit Association founded in Bologna in January 2010 with the goal of spreading the culture of photography in all its many meanings and uses and to be a planning and production photographic centre, a real source of creation and exchange of proposals, an independent reality open to sharing the passion for photography.

The idea of the "Photography Workshop in New York" originated from the personal experiences of Laura de Marco and Roberto Alfano, founders of Spazio Labo’ – Center of Photography in Bologna, Italy. After both personally learning the in and outs of the NYC photo scene, they decided to put together a workshop program that would put students immediately in touch and in tune with the same experiences they developed over time. Their idea is to impart valuable information on students such as: contact networks, training methods, creative atmospheres, possibilities for professional experience; all elements of the vast cultural offer characteristic of the city that can be considered as the current capital of the art of photography.

Here is a list of the three workshops being offered:

“In Plain Sight” with Donna Ferrato, May 14-20

You can check out and read about Donna F. dazzling and inspiring her students on their blog. Fantastic Donna!

“The Personal Documentary” with Erica McDonald and Andrew Sullivan, May 22-28

“New York Reports” with Davide Monteleone and Maurizio Garofalo, May 30 – June 5

Big Heart

2011-05-11T18:07:00.000-07:00

As I begin to write this piece, I lack a desire to labor over words and sentences that might not only look precise and meaningful, but that tell the entire story behind the photograph. My mind can not hold steady or remain focused long enough to create the kind of colorful descriptions and anecdotes, I often try to tell when I present a photograph. I am unsettled. My dear Moishe, my lovely dog is very sick.

"Frontal X-Ray of Moishe's Heart", Jersey City, NJ. April, 2011. Juliana Beasley

For those of you who have read my blog or have in the past, you are familiar with my dear companion, Moishe, a little white Bichon Frise/ Terrier mix that I adopted from the NYC ASPCA back in 1998. He was 3 years old and needed a home and I was 30, had just lost my mother without warning. I needed unconditional love and some laughter and I needed to take care of myself by taking care of another.

Moishe was diagnosed years ago with heart disease, as well as lung disease. Now, his condition has progressed. Days are spent monitoring his behavior, his demeanor, his eating, his sleeping, and now the short walks that end midway down the block. The last days, he has not had the enthusiasm he normally has when I pull out his harness and shake the dogs tags to his typical delight, a signal which he knows means that he is going outside. I am only giving you a rough sketch. The sort of sketch a clinician might write in a patient's records and yet, I see it also includes the pain that is watching a loved one die when you foolishly believed they were going to live forever.

Moishe's has a big heart. It is growing larger and larger. Literally and figuratively. This muscle is expanding so much that now, it presses up against his trachea and makes his breathing labored and renders him exhausted after little activity.

He still has bushes and grasses to sniff and treats to be devoured. And he has the warmth of our mutual love and the abundance of years of our coexistence in three different apartments in two different states.

I have lovely stories to tell about Moishe. And heroic ones too. We lived a whole life that we shared exclusively with one another.

Louise in the Courtyard of Her Pousada

2011-05-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

"Louise in Pousada Courtyard #1", Brazil, Summer 2010.

Dear Louise,

I am still looking for you.

I was foolish not to take your e-mail or your home address the morning before you got on the bus with the other Swedish tourists leaving for the airport. I searched all over the internet for you and cannot find any information. I found you on Facebook, but I see that you rarely visit your page and you do not accept requests for friends.

Your beauty and quiet soulfulness are imprinted in my memory. I can see no other way besides us meeting once again. Strange and as deceptive as a photograph can be, I feel that you are still somewhere close to me and that we have not lost one another for good. Maybe the next time we meet you will be walking without your crutches as you have always wanted and I will be free from generations and past lives of karmic suffering.

However, brief our encounter, I feel a strong connection to your desire to heal, your strength beyond your 18 years, and your deep conviction to hold onto faith. When I look at this photograph, I am reminded of all the possibilities that lay ahead of you. I imagine your reserved, timid yet courageous aura and all the inspiration of a full peaceful life that radiates from you. You inspire me just like the cool tranquil blue tiles and the painting of a flower in bloom that paint the background behind you.

I hope someone will see this photograph who knows Louise and let her know that I am looking for her.

We met on a ship in the middle of the ocean, two strangers but bonded through our sisterhood in our desire to heal and to make the impossible become possible.

I hope you have found peace and healing.

Love, Juliana

The Day After Osama Bin Laden's Death

2011-05-03T11:34:00.000-07:00

Here is two of the many photographs that I took yesterday at the World Trade Center the day after Osama Bin Landen's Death was announced. Many tourists and New Yorkers overtook the streets and pathway around the WTC site to catch of moment in time with cameras and mobile phone cameras in hand. To look at others go to Contact Press Images website.

" Photographer at WTC Site on 05/02/11 #1", NYC, Juliana Beasley

"Photographing Flower Left In Memory at WTC", NYC, 05/02/11. Juliana Beasley

Photo for Sunday May 1st, 2011

2011-05-01T18:57:00.000-07:00

"Genevieve In White", Brazil, 2010. Juliana Beasley.

As I look, at this photograph that I took of Genevieve, the daughter of my newfound friend, Madeleine with whom I share an e-mail correspondence, I am reminded of the simplicity of what life might be for me without so many "things" to clutch onto. Maybe it is a childish fantasy but I do believe somehow that it exists, if not for me, for others who perhaps have found and accepted the truth that life does not have to be so complicated.

I can only hope for more calm, more time in this next year to allow me to step away momentarily and remove this costume called "Juliana". I will return to Brazil, in body or mind, wearing a white dress brilliant and pure in the hot afternoon sun. I will search out the rough touch of tall grass upon my legs and the cool breeze that dries the sweat collecting in between the hairs of my brow. I hope to find the quiet and the inexplicable which was always here.

Photo for Saturday in April 2011

2011-04-30T21:18:00.000-07:00

"Two Yemenite Brothers", Rockaways, NYC, April 2011.

I love meeting new people out in the Rockaways. Sometimes, it feels like a second home or a vacation getaway if I'm in the right mood. On a day's visit, I typically run into at least four or five people who have let me photograph them over the years. Last Sunday afternoon, I was introduced to the two brothers in the above photograph. They live across the street from Lulu, the woman who runs the boarding house behind the chain link fence. On a warm day, she spends enough time sitting outside in a sun chair with her husband and the friendly visitor drinking and idling on the cement steps to her front door. I suspect she knows most of what is going on or going down in the neighborhood.

"Come here, "she motions at two boys as they were walking up the street towards the boardwalk.

"They are brothers", she informs me. "Their country is at war. Yemen, right? Isn't that right?" she questions them.

They nod.

"Take their photograph."

I do.

I Love the Night Life. I Want to Boogie. aka My Polaroid Love Affair.

2011-04-14T11:45:00.000-07:00

"Jesse(aka Juliana) and Suzi Sazuki", Honolu, Hawaii, 1994. Juliana Beasley

This Polaroid was taken in between my half hour dance sets while I was working as a stripper in Hawaii. The club where I worked had once been a theatre complete with faded and worn red velvet chairs bolted to the floor in a half circled amphitheater. In it's present state, the dark and grungy space had barely been renovated or converted to suit the needs or demands of a clientele with more than a couple of hundred dollars to blow on a night of anonymous laughter, smiles and fake intimacy with some woman possibly half their age. Management, at the request of the cheap and wealthy owner, projected vivid, and graphic low end (meaning low budget) porn on the wall and highlighted various "feature dancers" and porn stars who would come to the club and perform for a week at a time. In memory, this club certainly scores in the top three most gruesome shit holes where I had ever worked in the seven or eight odd years as a professional stripper. This, however, has no relation to the amount of money that I made in this place or any other dive. Actually, it defies it.

Elated fans would come to see showcased performers and if they had the extra money, they could spend it on a instant photo, personalized with her signature and/or a scribbled flirtatious and salacious comment. They could leave the club with a lasting momento of posing next to or possibly holding their favorite sex starlet in their arms.

Here I posed with Suzi Sazuki, a mid-career porn star from Japan.

I stood on line like the others waiting for my turn. I didn't pay though. She wouldn't let me. She was nice and her English was close to terrible.

I had dyed my hair blonde with hopes of making more money in the clubs. It's true. Blondes are more in demand in the stripper subculture. That evening, I wore my heavily padded push up bra filled only with the deception and lies of a more fruitful bounty. I also wore wearing a pair of bandana patterned hot hot shorts that I fondly called "my money-makers" since I always made high earnings when I put them on.

I remember that my golden hair glowed like a lightning bug under the black lights. I believed it attracted more attention from the customers--and therefore, made me more earnings--than did my natural dark brown hair. I learned later in my career when I had reestablished myself as a true brunette that this Barbie logic was indeed not true at all.

"Anonymous Dancer in Dressing Room", NYC, New York, 1992? Juliana Beasley

I do not remember this anonymous dancer that I photographed with my Polaroid camera. I do remember one thing though. She only worked a week or so in this particular club because she was on the road traveling from one club to the next. One evening, a doorman helped her carry in a large black suitcase into the dressing room. The rest of us stood to the side so she would have enough room to pass through the small space. Finally, she found a small empty corner to stake out as her own and set it down.

When she opened it I could see that it was filled with expensive looking costumes each one rolled up and wrinkled in careless bundles. I remember that she changed her costumes after each dance set unlike the rest of "house girls" who were to lazy to change our cigarette infused stinky outfits more than twice in an evening. This is one of my first Polaroids taken in a strip club at the beginning of my career as a stripper in 1992.

"Wanna Dance?", Las Vegas, Nevada, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I took this Polaroid with my Joy Cam in Las Vegas while shooting for my book, "Lapdancer". At the end of 2002, I flew out there, after a quick stop to visit, not only a dear friend, but also to photograph in some of Colorado's "finest" clubs. By this time, my dancing career had already been over for several years. I was on a photo work trip without the benefits of a due salary. I traveled through several states. I was determined to make some last strong images before my book would be published. I was still fresh and naive and believed that I could make a living as an photographer telling stories through my photographs.

I planned the classic weekend 24/7 trip to Vegas. I banked on the fact that many clubs--like the casinos--remained open around the clock. The doors remained perpetually open to eager customers, except for the obligatory occasional few hours when the janitorial service would come in to disinfect mirrors, carpets and chairs with industrial strength cleaning products.

Soon after I arrived at McCarran Airport, I settled into my room at the Lexor Hotel on the strip. I quickly washed my face and then called around town for the permission to shoot in as many clubs as I could find listed in the Adult Entertainment Trade Guide. Several owners or managers agreed, but most did not.

At this particular club where I took the above Polaroid, they allowed me to come in and photograph both the customers and the dancers in the club, depending on whether each individual agreed to it or not. The club was beautiful; most dancers wore full gowns, inferring that the establishment was "upscale" or otherwise referred to in the business, as a "gentlemen's club". I can still remember two flawless shining black dance stages that reflected a warm glow upon the stripper's bodies from light beams up above.

I also remember seeing a lot of very stocky men wearing enormous cowboy hats and smoking cigars that early spring weekend.

The two dancers in the Polaroid above were "tag-teaming" or rather, they doubled up in order to hustle a customer into buying a sexy private dance with not only with one girl, but two, and with that the added treat of watching two girls caress one another.

"Someone Wants Me One Day", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I took this photograph while I was in Fort Myers, Florida. My friend, Lisa introduced me to a strip club that she often frequented as a female customer in her home town. She had also become friends with some of the dancers. The women danced topless only, but were obliged by law to wear a see through tape over their nipples. In the city of Ft. Myers, it was illegal to expose this obviously, obscene part of a woman's body. Dancers were expected to mask their nipples with a flesh-toned tape. Customarily, they would put make-up over the barrier to conceal it, so that it recreated the illusion that conversely, their nipples were indeed exposed.

This dancer allowed me to photograph her. She stood out because she worked with her glasses on. As unusual as this was to typical stripper accessorizing, she wore them. Perhaps, contact lenses irritated her eyes or she just simply fancied them. Maybe she wanted to monopolize the naughty secretary market. I don't know, but I could see that in her case, it didn't seem to be working for her. The day my friend escorted me to the club, she was idling and standing alone leaning against a table. She wasn't hustling. She wasn't sitting on some customer's lap. She appeared to be in despair. I assumed she couldn't get a private dance or rather, no customer would give her twenty dollars for something more up close and personal. She confided in me that this happened often. Despite this, she was cheerful and very chatty, speaking to me in a thick southern accent.

When I asked her if I could take her portrait, she was surprised.

"Really, " she said. "I'm not that pretty."

Afterwards, I gave her a Sharpie and asked her to write in her own words what she was feeling at that very moment. She wrote possibly with hope and longing, "Some one wants me one day."

"Jolie", Unknown City in Colorado, 2000. Juilana Beasley.

I took this photo out in Colorado. I was staying with a friend who was close to ending her career as a dancer. She had recently moved out there from NYC, but had decided to continue working as a stripper until she was making more money in her chosen professional career in the sciences (She was also intent on buying a home out there before quitting for good).

I came out to visit with her with two motives: I wanted to reconnect with her and secondly, I wanted to begin finishing Lapdancer. She drove me out to some anonymous town to a club hidden amongst the evergreens, where she worked part-time. I wanted to ask the management whether or not, I could photograph in the club. I got the thumbs down on photographing the customers, but was allowed to shoot the dancers with their permission only.

This is Jolie. I still don't know why this beat up couch was parked in the club where it had no place. This strange ambiguity made it the perfect place to take a Polaroid of her dressed up in her Lolita-esque majorette skirt.

Station Break! System Breakdown.

2011-04-09T09:45:00.000-07:00

Peter Finch won the Academy Award for Best Actor posthumously for his portrayal as Howard Beale, the irate anchorman in the film "Network".

I woke up this morning a little cranky. No, big deal. Actually, simply for one reason. I feel like I'm getting a full on cold, something that I've been able to keep at bay several times this winter season with mega doses of Vitamin C, combined with Vitamin E and more rest time.

I am listless and manifesting the beginnings of a common cold. No, fever. Just a dry cold, not a wet cold. I am completely dehydrated, tired, a little weak and yes, cranky. Sick gets in the way of productivity. Sick can make me feel useless even if I know this viewpoint is completely exaggerated and distorted

Clearly, this is an insensitive standpoint that I take against my poor immune system which is failing, as well as a delusional way to treat of myself. Fact is without any prior notice, my stressed out body decided to take a well-needed vacation. For reasons that still allude me I refuse to listen to my body and mind's pleas for attention. Possibly, the reasons I am still sitting in my PJ's can be blamed simply on my relentless and cruel and emotional stressful expectations I put upon myself. I have worn down my natural antibodies. There is little recourse except to sit my ass down and take my medicine. Sleep, pop more Vitamin C and E, put on my kundalini gong music and relax.

Possibly someone reading can relate to these "issues"?

Here are the facts:

I am not a Type A person.
I am acting as if I am a Type A person.

Left unchecked, the the pretense of being a Type A personality can lead to anxiety, low grade depression (a.k.a. dyshymia....look into the your DSM, whether it be V, V, or VII or maybe DSMVI for the latest precursors for a self-diagnostic check-up), and physical ailments.

So, bottom line. I was intent last night to wake-up this morning and go to the gym and have a productive work day. I am sure for many of you readers who are in the arts or in photography or the combined version realize that our work week is often seven days and not five.

I am sick.

I am angry.

Not so angry but, more disappointed angry.

But, if "you feel me?" anger means ugly. Some say, it will not set you free from mortal pain.

On a personal journey towards forgiveness, I have attempted to find salvation through countless books on good karma and enlightenment (**look into authors such as Thich Nhat Hanh, Jon Kabat-Zinn and Sharon Salzberg) by those practicing Buddhism. Not to mention, I have also doused the "tiger within" by partaking in local dharma groups both in Jersey City, New York City and several costly retreats. I have learned that these strong and unsettling human emotions will not set you on a path of lovingkindness towards yourself, your friends, your enemies, and those unknown to you around the world. Anger has always been pinned as "dirty" word. It always has been.

Anger. Freud said something like "depression is anger turned inward" as opposed to homicide which is anger turned outwards. Many western psychologists will tell you that anger is a natural and very human response to the unbearable, the annoying, the painful, etc. I believe this to be true. This is what I have faced and embraced in countless sessions with my therapist, Natasha. In fact, anger can be transformed into great works of art, running countless marathons and creating necessary political revolutions, as we witness in todays newspaper headlines.

I am left and here is the kicker, still lost and confused and still on the search towards freedom and good mental health. Buddhism would respond to this indecision by telling you that you or I am on the right path. We are left duly with unanswered questions. I want to throw my hands up in the air.

So, with that said, I felt inspired when I got up this morning by the following famous and outstanding quote from the movie, "Network". Peter Finch's superlative performance as the sweaty, furious, insane anchor, Howard Beale who rants at full volume first, with his head stuck out of the window and then on live national television.

"I AM MAD AS HELL AND I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!"

Surely, I'm not as angry as Howard Beale. I am just cranky. I don't plan to go on national television and scream any feelings of malcontent. I will not hang my head out the window and scream either, as I am a considerate and quiet neighbor. And I just don't think it is a helpful mantra. Although, at the right times, it might be spot on. Just a necessity.

A dear friend's therapist suggested ranting loudly into a plastic bottle. My personal penchant is a Diet Pepsi bottle.

Howard Beale's full commentary. Just change a couple of words here and there and you will notice that the sentiments and worldy dilemmas that have passed between 1976 and 2011 are a mere discrepancy.

Why Did They Take My Polaroid Camera Away?

2011-04-06T22:45:00.000-07:00

"Pee Wee", Tampa, Florida, 2001. Juliana Beasley

Yes, I know many of you feel the same way.

Just today, I was in a fit of Polaroid inspiration when I looked at Doug Rikard's, (the genius blogger and photographer behind the blog, American Suburb X ) "These Americans". I was deeply engaged in the Polaroid images of a blonde woman in lingerie, posing for the camera in classic pin-up fashion. The photographs are under the subtitle, "Amateur 1990's".

What I find fascinating about these and other Polaroid images of this genre is simply more than my own natural voyeurism to take a peek at a half-dressed woman, but more specifically, the curious story between subject and photographer. I am left with a feeling of wanting to know about the nature of their relationship. Was the photographer her lover, were these photographs taken to obtain work in the sex industry? These amateur photographs make me consider more the intentions of the person behind the camera than the person in front. And yes, the relationship between the two. I want to know story behind the photo shoot.

"Gypsy Rose", Honolulu, Hawaii, 1997. Juliana Beasley

I am intrigued with the "no pretense reality" of the Polaroids because the lighting is so poor (in particular, flash under florescent lighting) that very few flaws can be hidden, not to mention the poor color correction intrinsic to the film. The scene all looks so cheap, despite the young blonde woman smiling for the camera and the character of her young innocence it projects. There is a raw sleeziness to the images which also, makes me consider whether or not she was coerced into the photo session. These photos leave me with many questions. Possibly banal and mundane but somehow, I am intrigued and question why these images feel so personal and real, more so than most intimate photographs taken by professionals.

And lastly, Polaroids give me a creepy sensation of death. The subject's mortality is somehow reinforced with the click of the shutter. And yet, I am still drawn to the perverse quality it evokes.

"If you don't know...", Las Vegas, Nevada, 2002. Juliana Beasley

Here are some images from my Polaroid collection from my project "Juliana's Secret Stash". I took these images during the time I was working on my first book, "Lapdancer". Now and in a previous post on this blog, I have begun to show them. I took these images with the lovely JoyCam. Others were taken by club management with the standard SX-70.

"Someone Wants Me One Day", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

The concept was simple. As part of the fanfare, strip clubs sometimes offer the customer a Polaroid of themselves with the dancer or "feature dancer" (an erotic performer who has a fan club and following) of their liking. After the Polaroid is taken, the dancer or "feature dancer" signs something titillating at the bottom with a Sharpie. The customer then can return home with with this souvenir, a piece of memorabilia of the night in the club with their favorite performed. I decided to photograph the dancers alone on their free time with my JoyCam and simply asked them to write down what they were thinking at that very moment. I wanted to see expose the reality of what they were really thinking, beyond the cliched commentary reflecting the mundane "sexy" things they normally wrote at the bottom of the Polaroid on the white border.

"Fucked Up", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I wanted my own box of memorabilia from my stripper days. Whenever, there was an opportunity to be photographed with a sex industry celebrity, I stood on-line with the other customers and waited my turn.

I Am So Feng Shui

2011-04-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

A real miracle happened here today.

Any Given Day at the Beasley Residence, Still from "Valley of the Dolls"

I'm pushing paper here. Ripping up paper. I'm talking with customer service representatives on the phone and am perfectly calm and not saying crazy lady things and asking for a supervisor. I am friendly and ask them where they are based. Texas, one customer rep says. I made an appointment for a mammogram, a bone density test, and blood work, all perfectly situated on the Upper East Side. I reordered Moishe's pain medication for his arthritis since the on-line pharmacy did not fax the prescription to my vet like they said they would when I ordered it two weeks ago. I am talking to my accountant's secretary and using financial jargon like a real young hip entrepreneur. I am confronting, opening and reading seven months of bank statements that I have avoided. And I am remembering to breathe and breathe very deeply.

I feel calm. I feel calm.

I FEEL CALM.

Although, the day is still not over and there are still tasks to cross of the list, I will give myself five out of five gold stars for good behavior today! Eight minutes to five... and so amped up, I'm ready to write out that expense list, this year's goal's list, wash the dogs, wash the dishes, prepare a fecal sample that I will put in an envelope and send to some anonymous technician at InSure Fit Laboratories in Teterboro, New Jersey.

I can do it all in one day. I can cross everything off my list that always fell to the waist side because it brought up feelings of inadequacy, maternal power struggles, latent rage, and helplessness and most of all fear of abandonment. By the time, my therapist gets back to town, she'll have very little material to analyze and systemize and organize. I will be so Feng Shui. I will be so Minimalist. I will be so Zen. There will be no need for waste paper baskets because I will not have any paper. I will have nothing left to fix, say, or do.

Beautiful Heart

2011-03-30T20:52:00.000-07:00

"Beautiful Heart", 3/11, NYC. Juliana Beasley

"Take off everything except for your underwear and put this on, " the nurse technician said, as she passed me a paper gown. I hadn't done this for years.

"Oh, tie in the front." She closed the door and I began to undress, hanging my clothes on the back of the door. I took off my beat up sneakers and socks, shoving the latter into the former. I placed them side by side next to the examining table.

I had called the week before to make an appointment for my yearly physical with Dr. Orbach. We hadn't seen each other in over ten years. I sat down on the hygenic tissue paper rolled out on the examining table, my legs swinging and dangling like a bored child in a waiting room. And I did feel like a child. Soon enough, the nurse technician returned. She wore a pair of standard scrubs with a little flair: a pastel design motif that accentuated her youthful appearance. In between taking my blood pressure and taking my pulse, she pulled out from her pants a cell phone protected in a hot pink case that matched her long fingernails. She glanced at it quickly and put it away.

"Lay down. Please."

She untied my robes and put suction cups on my breasts connected to tubes hooked up to an EKG machine. When she was finished, she asked me to stand on the scale.

"Please, don't tell me how much I weigh, " I asked as I stood backwards on the scale.

There were several years that I had refused to know how much I exactly weighed, whenever I went in for a check up. I didn't want to know anything definitive. Now, I know more or less. I just don't want to hear it come out from someone else's mouth, as they jot it down permanently in a records.

"Now, Ms. Beasley, just let me measure you." She balanced the metal rod on my head.
"How tall am I? " I asked.
"5'2"", she said.
Shit, I had lied for more than half of my life about my height. And I planned to continue lying and adding an inch to the truth for the rest of it too.

"How is everything", I asked when she finished.

"Everything is normal," she said. "Dr. Orbach will be with you shortly."

Really, everything is normal?

That unchartered passage that exists between the time the nurse technician leaves you alone with sterilized cotton balls and stainless steel cabinets, until the time when the doctor walks through the door can be agonizing and tortuous. Or at least, it is for me. I'm bored, I'm nervous. I have no purpose except to sit, wait. trust. I looked down at my hairy unshaven legs.

What will I say when she comes in? And where are those osteoporosis and golfing magazines? I'm trapped. Why do doctors always over schedule their patients and make you wait?

I pull out my mobile phone and start checking to see if I have any new e-mails or text messages. Nothing there. I am not on my time. I am on doctor time and that means I am completely out of control. And I am wearing nothing but a disposable napkin.

The door opened and a thinner older Dr. Orbach walked in. She looked good.

"Hi!", she said. It had been over ten years since I had last come to see her. The last time I saw her I was still working as a stripper and living in the East Village. I could still afford to pay for health insurance out of pocket. I had seen other doctors after I stopped going to her, but this was my first doctor's visit in more than 3 years.

"Wow, " she said, "Look at you! You have grown up." I imagined she was eye-balling the grays contrasted against my dark brown hair. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I was already anxious in her presence but now, I felt like I might be noticeably trembling.

I knew Dr. Orbach beyond the normal patient/doctor relationship. I had picked her name randomly from a list of doctors that my health care provider had sent me. I picked her based on two things: she was a woman and I could take the crosstown bus to her office. But, the strange coincidence occured way before I was born, we had already made a connection. She knew my father, but she never knew that I was his daughter.

One day when I came in for a routine visit. At the end of the appointment, she became very serious.
"I have something to tell you, " she said. "I've known for a while. And I think you should know."

She informed me that my father had interviewed her as a young pre-med applicant to the medical college where he worked as the dean of admissions. She adored and admired my father. When she received word of his death, she was shocked to discover a photograph of me standing next to him printed on a memorial card sent to her in the mail.

"You can come up anytime and we can order in lunch," she said to me. I did. I ate a bagel with cream cheese and chives and drank a coffee. We were sitting in her office. I had nothing to say. I felt awkward, yet priveledged. I never went back for lunch after that.

Dr. Orbach was and is a very nice cardiologist and GP. She has four kids and often travels to Israel. She has a cousin that is a very famous writer. I don't know more.

I started to relax. I think I stopped trembling. After a three minute update on my life over the last ten plus years, we got to business. She asked me the usual. "What medications are you on?" "Do you smoke?" "Do you have a history of any illness in your family?"

And then she had me roll over on my side and repositioned my body.

"I'm going to do an ultrasound of your heart."

She applied a cool jelly and moved a microphone-like device around my chest. Thump, Thump, Thump.
And than I could hear delightful sounds that reminded me of being underwater, something I imagined, a pregnant woman might hear when getting a sonogram of her unborn child. I have heard it on TV.

"How does it look?", I asked.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"Just beautiful", she reassured me.

I was beaming.

She ripped the long strip of paper with my heart prints from the printer and looked at them in the light.

"Can I have one of the photographs? " I asked.
She folded the paper, ripped off a section, and handed it to me. She showed me the different chambers.

She left the room, I wiped the gel from my body and looked at my heart.

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Brittany in 2006. Brittany in 2011.

2011-03-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

I first met Brittany in 2006. Kerri, Joanne's daughter had introduced her to one summer day in August. She was walking down the Boulevard, carrying a grocery bag in her hand. She was young and pregnant.
Few words were exchanged, I took a photograph of her, she smiled and I got her mobile number.

I could never track her down and sometimes when I ran into some of her friends, I would ask for her. I could sense she was avoiding me. After, leaving several messages on her voicemail, I tried to get through one more time to find that the phone had been disconnected. This never shocked me.

"Brittany Pregnant", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"Brittany with Her Child on the Boulevard", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley

I'm putting this photo up just now because in my last post, I put a photograph of her this St. Paddy's Day.
That chilly day, she was standing again out on the Boulevard, this time with a stroller. The interaction was quick. We were in a crowd of people on the sidewalk waiting for the parade to pass. I took her photograph and in the commotion, I believe she told me this was her second child. I took her number again and wondered if maybe this time, she would return my calls.

I decided to repost the image of Brittany from a couple of weeks ago to show the contrast of her five years ago and her now.

I Photographed On St. Paddy's Day in the Rockaways, #2

2011-03-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

The photographs and story begins in the post below.

"Brittany with Her Child on the Boulevard", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley

Our first stop was right next to the subway entrance, my favorite diner. It had become part of my regular routine.

"Would you like something to eat?", I asked Amy.

She declined. We found a table, set down our bags. The waitresses rushed by, one set a two menus in front of us and said she would be right back to take our order. I always got the same thing, two eggs or medium, home fries, whole wheat toast (toasted with butter on the side) and bacon. I looked around the diner to see if I could recognize any of my old chums were sitting at a table drinking holding onto an empty cup waiting for their next refill. No, one in sight. I was hoping to see Barbara, the woman who delivered the paper early in the morning and then spent her mornings and early afternoons drinking coffee there.

I called Charlie, my old friend who had always let me sleep on his floor if I spent a couple of nights out there. The last time, I called he was stuttering and I had a hard time understanding him. He told me he had had a stroke. I could barely understand him on the phone. He apologized for his inability to form words.

"Call back later" he said, "You can talk to Sheri."

Several minutes later, a woman with a thick Caribbean accent picked up the phone. It was Sheri. She explained that she was Charlie's home health care aide.

"We were on our way to the Kerry Hill, " I said. "Can we meet in 45 minutes at the diner?'

"Ma Smoking at Her Kitchen Table", Rockways, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley

The day was not as it was expected. But, then it never is when I go out there. I can't seem to make any plans; they normally fall through. My time was not spent photographing the the onlookers of the St. Paddy's Day parade. I ran into people that I knew on the boulevard. Kerri had another baby and so, did Brittany. Katrina had grown up from a eight-year old into teenager and had no interest in talking to me, let alone stand next to me. I exchanged a few words and laughs with them. I was informed that many no longer lived in the neighborhood but had moved out to Long Island or to other boroughs. They simply said there was nothing to do out in the Rockaways. They were only in the neighborhood for the day to gather in a celebration that bound their Irish patriotism.

I didn't recognize anyone in the Kerry Hill except Margie, the bartender and Carmel the bar owner. I ordered a double Jamenson with a side of Diet Coke and chugged it down.

"Would you like a drink", I asked Amy. No, she didn't. Before 12pm, the bar was packed, not with the regulars I once knew, but with a cheerful bunch decked out in green hats and necklaces.

We soon left and walked out the door and onto the Boulevard. I could see Charlie and Sheri in the distance coming towards us. They had their elbows linked as they walked slowly together. I yelled Charlie's name, ran up to him and gave him a big hug. Upon seeing him, I had forgotten how much I missed him. I missed his reserved and quiet good nature. I remembered how years ago we would watch old films together on the Turner Classic station in his room and how he had to wake me up several times during the night because I was snoring. Times had changed. I got to know him before he was sober and in the worst condition, now he was sober, older but his living conditions were better. We had both gotten older.

"St. Paddy's Parade Spectator", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley

We had Lipton Tea together at the diner. Charlie and I shared simple words. When it was time to leave, I offered to pay the check. He wouldn't have it and I let him have his way. He asked if we would stop by his place later, "Yes," I said.

I could elaborate on all the things that happened that day but instead, for now, I can only write my sentiments and what was most impressive to me during this one day trip out there. Like I said two years had passed since I had gotten off the train at 116 Street.

Despite the fact that Charlie had had a stroke, I was happy to see Charlie in good hands. He was getting the care that he needed. He was no longer alone sitting in his room. We went and visited him later during the day. For the first time, his room was tidy and his bed was made and his clothes were in a closet. He pulled out photographs that were nicely kept in a basket sitting on his dresser. He was proud to show me photographs of his new granddaughter and old pictures of himself from much younger days.

We stopped off at the boarding house where I had met Ma in 2009. I knocked on her door and for the first time, I entered her home. The photographs in this entry and my last are from that meeting. A friend of hers had recently died and she shared images of him. She was still in mourning and clearly lonely without her friend. I took some photographs. Amy listened intently. I could see that she was happy to have the company and someone to talk with.

"Green St. Paddy's Kids", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley

The trip was quick. I had shot very little film. I worried and regretted. Yet, I was truly inspired and my enthusiasm was once again on fire. I knew I would go back again and spend more time... the time it takes to really sit down with someone and give them your full attention, the time it takes to take a meaningful photograph, one which speaks of both subject and photographer. I had just put my feet back on the ground.

I Photographed On St. Paddy's Day in the Rockaways, #1

2011-03-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

"Portrait of Ma", Rockaway, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley.

On April 7, I told my friends that I was going to photograph the St. Paddy's Day Parade out in the Rockaways, my old stomping ground.

"No, " they told me. "St. Paddy's is on the 17th." But, I knew differently. The real St. Paddy's Day is celebrated in all it's green glory out in the Rockaways.

I hadn't been out to the Rockaways since 2009.

In all the years that I have been commuting back and forth to the Rockaways, I never had a chance ( I was out of town, I forgot the date, I was unmotivated) to photograph the parade in a town once called "Irishtown" because so many Irish immigrants had settled in the community. I knew some of the old timers, the real Irishman and women who were born and raised in Ireland and still maintained a healthy brogue. I also knew some of the second generation Irish Americans, as well as, some of their kids.

Last minute, I wanted to find an intern/assistant. In desperation, only, a few days before the event, I was considering posting the day's internship to attract a possible candidate. I wanted to bring two different cameras and needed help carrying one bag to lighten my load while shooting. I put the word out to fellow photo friends. My friend David returned my text and thought he might have the perfect match for me. He told me she was a student in the photography program at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

"Go friend her on Facebook, " he said.

And I did. I needed an intern right away. I didn't have the time to be so selective. I found her on Facebook.

I looked through her photo albums on her page. There were all the usual photographs of her goofing with friends at parties. The drinks, the laughs, the mocking and perhaps, a couple of people throwing the ubiquitous popular gang signs. She was pretty. She had lot's of friends. But, honestly, none of this really mattered. In the deceptive world of Facebook, everyone wants to portray themselves as a winner and not a loser. I wasn't necessarily looking for a winner, I was looking for someone enthusiastic, helpful, and eager to learn something on a weekend afternoon.

And then I found a great self-portrait of her with her cat. The way she held the cat and looked into the camera, I felt whether true or only a projected fantasy on my part, that this girl was kind. In another self-portrait, she held a medium format camera. Ah, I could see she was in her early twenties and yet, had opted to shoot film instead of digital.

She accepted my friendship request. She was interested and free on Saturday.

Her name was Amy. It was Wednesday. There was no time to meet for a casual interview.

Between, text messages, e-mails and then a brief phone conversation, I explained the basic things I expected of her. I told her what I needed and the rest I could explain on the subway out to the Rockaways.

We set a date for 9am on the platform at Chambers St. in lower Manhattan. I told her I was petite--not short--and had short dark hair. She was also, not so tall and had long brown hair.

The next item on my shoot list was to find a way to blend in, a way to mix with the native parade onlookers.

Find green cheap and green clothes.

"Green Girl at St. Paddy's Parade", Rockaways, Queens, NYC, 3/11. Juliana Beasley

I went to the local Rainbow store where I knew I would find some cheap green shirts. I walked out the store and went to the nearby Duane Reade's, looked through the selections of green nail polish and green eyeliner. Picked up one of each for both Amy and me.

I dialed her number and left a message, "Amy, if you can, wear green nail polish." I couldn't possibly expect her to paint her fingernails on the subway.

And then to an outside market, where I bought a green knit hat that looked very funky and fashionable at that moment, so, I bought it. Later, it looked like a frumpy hat that an eccentric older woman might sport. Nevertheless, the thought of dressing up and taking pictures in one day felt like good fun to me.

As I walked down the quiet and almost empty platform at 9 am that Saturday, I noticed a young woman sitting on a bench. "Amy?", I yelled.

Yes, it was her, she walked towards me and smiled. We got on the next train.

The subway cars were pretty quiet for a Saturday morning. I took the time to show her my equipment, explain her responsibilities. Once above ground, I pulled out my mobile and started to call the numbers of people that I knew out there. I called Charlie, Trailer Bob, Michelle, Margie and Bobby. No one picked up. I left messages. Bobby and I had already made a tentative date to meet at Roger's Pub. He told me to come early, get a seat before the parade ended the bars became crammed.

The closer we got to our destination, I noticed the St. Paddy's vendors pushing shopping carts onto the train filled with green stuffed animals. We got off the end of the line. 116th St.

More text and images soon. Very soon.

I did these scans quickly, so, they are not of the best quality. They are, in a sense, work prints for my project and edited from contact scans very quickly.

Congrats to the Open Walls 18! Come to Open Society!

2011-03-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Samantha Box's photograph from her project on LGBTQ

I've been to past shows and I am always blown away with the work.

Here's the location:

Open Society Foundations
400 West 59th Street
New York, NY 10019, U.S.A.
Tel. 1-212-548-0600
Fax. 1-212-548-4600

At 5:30 pm to 8 pm

Moving Walls is a documentary photography exhibition produced by the Open Society Institute that features in-depth and nuanced explorations of human rights and social issues. These images provide the world with human rights evidence, put faces onto a conflict, document the struggles and defiance of marginalized people, reframe how issues are discussed publicly, and provide opportunities for reflection and discussion.

The Moving Walls 18 photographers join an illustrious roster of over 100 documentary photographers featured in the exhibition since 1998. Through Moving Walls, OSI honors the brave and difficult work that these photographers have undertaken while visually highlighting the mission of our foundation to staff and visitors.

Work was selected through an open competition process. Over 200 submissions were received and final selections were made by a committee of foundation staff and the exhibit curators, Susan Meiselas and Stuart Alexander.

Moving Walls 18 Photographers

Samantha Box: LGBTQ homeless youth in New York City
Gabriela Bulisova: Iraqi translators in exile in the United States
Benedicte Desrus: Anti-gay and LGBTI rights movements in Uganda
Andrea Diefenbach: Labor migration from Moldova
Carolyn Drake: Amu Darya and Syr Darya Rivers and the cotton harvest in Central Asia
Abdi Roble: Somali diaspora in the United States
Tadej Žnidarcic: Portraits and interviews of gay and lesbian individuals in Uganda

More Photographs and Words from Church on The Rock

2011-02-28T10:29:00.000-08:00

"Flip Hairstyle", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

After I photographed each member of the congregation who passed through are make-shift studio leading to the exit of the church, a young woman with bleach blonde hair approached me me. I asked her too as I had done with the others, "What is your New Year's resolution?"

Her mother and sisters waited outside. The door was held ajar and I could feel the cold air biting against my cheeks.

"I don't feel very good," she said.

"I took an overdose of my epilepsy medication yesterday. I feel really horrible. I tried to kill myself yesterday, " she said.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. Are you feeling alright?" I asked. "It's good that you came to church today."

The day before she had locked herself in the bathroom until her parents managed to get through the door. They had taken her to the emergency room. It's seemed incredible and almost impossible that she could be standing in front of me after such a trauma to her body and psyche. I couldn't make sense of the story, only that she wanted to die and that she hated herself.

"Laker's Fan", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Her honesty and our position in front of the door as others tried to move around us and exit felt equally awkward. I didn't know what to say. I knew I didn't have enough time to help her or give her some hope.

"I feel better today though, "she said. "I can't believe I did that. It was so stupid."

"You are going to be alright? " I said. "It's good that you came today. Did you pray for help and guidance?"

"Yes, " she said.

"Met's Fan", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"Girl with Scarf", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

"Woman in Red Coat", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Prayer and religion are not a part of my vocabulary, but I knew that I had to connect with her within her belief system and not mine.

I wrote down her name and her phone number. I told her I would call her. She said good-bye. I could do nothing else but give her a strong hug and tell her it would be alright. Or at least, I hoped it would be alright.

"Are you almost ready? " a man standing anxiously with a set of keys looked on as we packed my photo gear into bags.

My assistant and I quickly packed up the remainder of my things. We picked up my belonging,and
walked through the door that was quickly locked behind us.

"Charlie", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Church on The Rock, New Years Day 2006.

2011-02-25T08:40:00.000-08:00

"Pastor Gary's Son with His Wife and Son", Rockaways, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

I have never posted these images and have only shown them to a few people. They are part of another project, one of those projects you might write down on a list somewhere, the project you plan to revisit. Sometimes, we wait too long and never return, other times, for whatever reason in the cosmos, the attraction is so strong, you can't stay away. This is how I have been feeling lately about this group of portraits that I shot in no more than twenty minutes.

On New Year's Day 2006, I drove out to the Rockaways to photograph at a small storefront church named appropriately "Church on the Rock". The church is overseen by Pastor Gary as he is fondly known to the congregation. On weekends, he can be found preaching at the lectern on a humble stage.

When I saw Pastor Gary that very New Year's Day, a very frigid day as I recall, he recounted of his half way house in upstate New York. As far as I know, he told me that he was providing a service to the neighborhood, taking in addicted and alcoholic men and under his wing and under God's direction to find a sober and healthier life.

"Charles", Rockaways, NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

When I arrived the service had already begun. I created a make-shift studio against the wall next to the entrance and put my brand new Mamiya 645 on my new tripod. I had shot with the Mamiya possibly once before (and sadly enough not much at since). Tripods, now that was a new concept! In the past, they felt cumbersome, even the sturdy light Gitzo investment I had carted along.

We were crammed in between blue office chairs that were used instead of pews. Pushing them aside, we tried to move as far away from the wall backdrop as we could and even managed to set up a Vivitar on light stand. I felt like I was completely working somewhere, not outside of my skill set, but in a very new way that felt exciting. Thankfully, I had a friend there to help me. We had about 10 minutes to set up and take a test Polaroid. I asked my friend to put the test shot under her shirt to warm it up and speed the processing... I could see through the doorway that many had already gathered their personal belongings, preparing to leave.

"Brother and Sister", NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

No, it wasn't perfect but that suited me fine.

As the service ended, the members of the congregation began to slowly move towards our studio. After all, the only way to exit the church was to pass in front of my camera.. The line moved quickly, most obliged me with a portrait, rarely anyone refused. I shot a couple of frames.

The congregation was eclectic. Some came in well-worn clothes but others were dressed for their Sunday best.

One well-groomed couple introduced themselves to me and said they had recently bought a larger renovated home in the neighborhood. They represented the slow trickle of gentrification changing the colorful spirit of the Rockaways, for better or worse. I was surprised to see the middle-aged couple whom clearly had a more comfortable existence than most of the other members. They were cheerful, open-minded and made sure to mingle with others.

"Can I take your New Year's portrait?" I asked the people as they walked by.

And after a couple of shot frames. I asked, "What do you wish for the New Year? Do you have a New Year's resolutions?" I had also brought along my new digital recorder for interviewing.

"Woman with Her Purse", NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Some wished for happiness, others peace, others health. No one had any specific requests. I was disheartened and finally, lost interest in asking.

"Red Head Girl", NYC, 2006. Juliana Beasley

Where was Pastor Gary? He must have slipped out the back door and I never got his portrait.

Random Photographs and Moving Ahead With Rockaways

2011-02-22T10:05:00.000-08:00

"Elvie", Rockaway Park, NYC. 2004. Juliana Beasley

Dear Friends,

Much has been happening in my own life that has kept me away from my blogging commitments. I have been working on a short story about my experience out in the Rockaways and revolves around 3 central characters-- one myself.

My plan is to share it to you in 4 paragraph block entries with photographs included. That's the plan!

I hope that I will finish it soon or at least in 2 months.

I am slowly coming out of hibernation and looking forward to the spring.

"Butch's Hair", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2003. Juliana Beasley

"Irish Venetian Blinds", Rockaways Park, NYC. 2008. Juliana Beasley

The good news is that I have found a wonderful book designer for my Rockaway book dummy. Julia Braun who is incredibly talented and so far the joint effort and her savvy experience is coming together. We share notes and ideas on Skype and converse over two time zones. I am lucky to have her on board. And as you can imagine, I am excited to have the six years of hard and happy work in my hands.

I am posting some photographs that I found amongst my scans from the past. They are not meant necessarily for the book but just simply for feedback.

Best wishes!
Yours,
Juliana

Happy New Year 2011!

2010-12-31T16:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

I wish you a very Happy New Year!

One of my resolutions is more photographs taken and more words written! I hope to share more with you this year than last.

"New Year's Eve at the Palm Gardens", Rockaway Park, 2003. Juliana Beasley

Warm wishes!

Iron Worker's Christmas

2010-12-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've been out to my second home in the Rockaways. I miss it. Now that it is Christmas time, I am looking for to getting out there and shooting and meeting up with old friends. The cold air reminds me of several winter out there, bundled up and hoping for a snow storm.

Here is a photo I took with my Mamiya 645. This photo reminds me of the laid back feeling I have when I get out there, as well as feeling like I have gone back to another place and time when NYC was not so homegenous. Oh, I miss ya'!!!

And I can't wait to see Butchie!

"Iron Worker's Christmas", Rockaway Park, 2009. Juliana Beasley

This Time in America Group Show/ Miami Basel

2010-12-01T09:29:00.000-08:00

Hi All!

Here is the info for the show that I will be in. The opening is December 2nd at Gallery ID in the Wynwood District. The address is 2531 NW 2 Avenue in Miami! The opening starts at 7:30pm and ends at 11pm. I am thrilled to be a part of the show.

I would love to meet you during the event and hope I will see you down at the opening and also at Basel! Please, let me know if you are showing any work down there.

Here is the info:

This Time in America: Part I

Curators Giselle DeVera and Brenda Ann Kenneally

November 11, 2010 – Gallery I/D is pleased to announce its upcoming exhibition, This Time in America:

Photographers:

Juliana Beasley

Nina Berman

Sean Hemmerle

Tim Hetherington

Brenda Ann Kenneally

Gillian Laub

Randal Levenson

Emily Schiffer

Part 1. The two-part series, co-curated by renowned photographer Brenda Ann Kenneally, highlights

photographers who have turned their lenses on America. Part 1, which runs concurrently with Art Basel

from December 2nd to January 15th, features award-winning photographers and photojournalists who

captured diverse segments of American society. What they saw – a New York community of impoverished

social outcasts, cowboys and urbanites, segregation alive and well in America, U.S. soldiers in slumber

between wartime activities, the colorful frenzy of stock market charts and more – remind us not only of

the unique nature of America, but of our fluctuating and transformative place in the civilized world.

Things Fall Apart at Pool Gallery in Berlin!

2010-11-16T14:53:00.000-08:00

Hello All!

I want to announce the opening of the show "Things Fall Apart" at Pool Gallery in Berlin.

I am proud to be of a part a show with so many great American women photographers. It is truly an honor. And an honor to be in a show curated by Amy Stein. Here is the press release! If you are in the neighborhood, please check it and take some snaps of the opening night or of yourself in your favorite piece of lingerie.

The show includes the work of Lisa Kereszi , Stacy Mehrfar , Justine Reyes, Robin Schwartz , Zoe Strauss and Amy Stein . And me too.

Miss Stein and Miss Reyes will be in attendance for the vernissage!

There is one battle, and it is epic. It is the only

battle there has ever been; it is the only battle

there ever will be. It has consumed every last

human being that has ever lived; it is the battle

between Order and Chaos.

Grounded in faith, it is a holy war. Yes, it is the

fight for everything we believe in; the fight for

everything we are; the fight for a reason to get out

of bed in the morning.

Humans naturally side with order, likening it to

survival, yearning for predictability and control.

Over the millennia, we have come up with a range

of ammunition against the great Evil, the great

Darkness - the Chaos. Politics, alien abductions,

savings accounts, religion,

environmental protection, space shuttle

expeditions, hollywood fame, nuclear bombs - it

is a seemingly never-ending roster of human

creations, ideas, practices and bad habits that,

in essence, address this single and only conflict,

attempting to construct a semblance of

permanent order, to grasp some comfort and

stability amidst the chaos.

THINGS FALL APART, curated by American

photographer and pool gallery artist Amy Stein,

presents us with a wise, yet rather distressing,

understanding. It is a coming to terms with our

collective sentence, the hand we, humans, were

dealt; it is the realization that, at the end of the

proverbial day, the chaos prevails.

Stein has selected the works of seven American

female photographers; works that approach this

grand conflict from a humanistic and personal

standpoint. These artists dissect the human

desire to construct our systems of order, and

accentuate the inevitable disillusionment when

those very systems collapse. The works are more than a record of decay - they are, rather, an examination of loss, as the transition

from the ephemeral to the immutable reveals a cruel affirmation of our temporal existence.

This selection of works simultaneously tells one story: the story of any one life. Lisa Kereszi‘s works serve to highlight the beginning,

the plan-making that excites us in our naive youth and adolescence; Stacy Mehrfar continues from there, capturing the foundationlaying

and construction of our aspirations; Amy Stein‘s own works capture that dreaded moment, that turning point, when chaos first

comes calling, casting our plans off course; the descent from thereon is slow and spiked with flusters, trips and falls apart - a process

illustrated by the works of Justine Reyes, Juliana Beasley and Zoe Strauss; and finally, Robin Schwartz‘ Dead Deer is the summation

of the grand arc, a totem for the constant cycle of dissolution and change in the natural world.

Structuring all facets of our existence is an effort that requires trust in these structures‘ continuation; this trust forms the foundation

of faith. This faith surpasses religious faith; it is the faith that every human being requires to go on living, the most basic and inherent

faith - the faith that what we‘re doing, what we are, is not for nothing. It is the faith that gives us the stamina to go on fighting against

the Chaos.

THINGS FALL APART is Amy Stein‘s first curatorial project at pool gallery, where her work has been exhibited since 2008. She lives

and works in New York, NY.

Madeleine and Her Children in Brazil

2010-10-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

Madeleine and Her Children, Brazil, July 2010. Juliana Beasley

I approach Madeleine one morning when I see her sitting at Frutti's, the local gringo caffe on the main street in town.

The first time, I saw her in white, she was standing, sandwhiched between her two children, Francois and Genievieve. We are all waiting on lines to see the healer. She like all of us are here on some quest, some kind of medical intervention to cure our souls whether it be of some physical, mental, or spiritual malady. We are basking in the reflection of the white clothes. We have come from all over the world with a luggage full of white clothes and with the hope to be healed.

If there is anything to be said on the subject of aura's, she radiates the colors of innocence, calm and purity that you only see in some children. Indeed, she is small in stature... like me, small. And I immediately gravitate towards her, I can feel a direct pull moving me in her direction.

I want to meet her and I want to photograph her during my three week stay.

This is the photograph I took of her.

When I corresponded with her recently via e-mail, she told me that she still remembers me standing there with my camera in hand. She said, I appeared vulnerable. And I was. I was vulnerable to all that is out of our control. I was vulnerable the moment. Maybe I was just vulnerable to change.

Looking for Louise. Where are You?

2010-09-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

Louise in White #1, Brazil, 2010, Juliana Beasley

Hello Louise,

I hope you don't mind, but I wanted you to see this photograph of yourself from Brazil. Please, contact me as soon as possible with your e-mail address.

I took this photo in Brazil when I went to see a healer this summer for emotional and mental cleansing. I will return. There are other portraits that I have shot and stories to be written but, for now will remain unpublished on my blog.

I look forward to sharing them.

We all came to be healed, whether it was of physical, mental or spiritual affliction. Some of our dreams will come true. And some won't. I'm ready.

I photographed her in natural light... this is new for me and I can't wait to do more!

Back from "Truth or Dare" Workshop and On the Prowl

2010-09-09T03:26:00.000-07:00

Daniela Uribe and Juliana Beasley, Mexico City, 2010

Juliana and Workshop Students, Mexico City, 2010.

During the course of the 3 day workshop, we critiqued, viewed the work of other photographers, shared our own work and got personal with our students. And they were open hearted and shared their work and stories with us.

I strongly advise all to check out Gabriella Gomez-Mont's website/blog for Toxico Cultura . She has had some wonderful photographers present and teach down in Mexico City. Some of the photographers include Martin Parr and Amy Stein. She promises many more interesting guest teachers.

In the fall of 2010--yes, this year--Tema and I will be teaching the extended version of this class at the ICP in NYC... please, join us and we will all be very intimate and share stories.

Attached our some fun photos from our trip... in and out of the classroom.

Thanks a lot to Gabriella and to our students who all made this a memorable and wonderful experience.

Tema on her day off in a local market, Mexico City, 2010.

Tema Stauffer and Juliana Beasley Teach Together at Toxico Cultura in Mexico!

2010-08-20T16:15:00.001-07:00

Hi All!

Next Wednesday, 25th through Sunday, 29th, Tema Stauffer and I will be teaching a new and exciting class called "Truth or Dare". We will be teaching at Toxico Cultura in Mexico City! And yes, we are thrilled and very excited with this wonderful opportunity.

The class will be about how both of us have worked on building intimate relationships with our subjects in our photographs. We will also talk about photographers who have confronted the same issues in their own works. Students will not only confront these issues in their own work but will also incorporate journal writing to explore their personal process of photographing in the field.

Yes, we are thrilled because we have planned to teach the extended version at ICP in Manhattan in the fall. If you live in the area, I welcome you to join the class.

Please, take a look at Tema's writing on her blog and follow it then to her site... you should have it earmarked since it is fabulous. She has written a piece on her blog about our performance in Mexico. Her description is more detailed... and hits the class theme on the nail!

Tema's personal website .

"Johan", Tema Stauffer

For now, I would love to give the hash on Toxico Cultura , the organization headed by Gabriella Gomez-Mont.

Her is there statement! They have had some wonderful photographers teach there like Amy Stein and Martin Parr to name a few... oy! I guess you'll read this in the next paragraph.. hah!

Tóxico Cultura is an independent cultural project based in Mexico City: a creative think-tank. Among other things, we organize exclusive workshops and open lectures, led by world-renowned and/or talented emerging artists, filmmakers, photographers, designers, editors and writers, such as Martin Parr, Stefan Ruiz, Amy Stein, and Chris Boot. We also do film screenings, exhibitions and collective art projects. But even though Tóxico’s projects change constantly, they do have certain points in common: the relentless belief that imagination is not a luxury. That excellence is contagious. That intoxicating ideas are the best fuel for the creative mind.

Tóxico Lab is a new series of exciting workshops created for (and by) talented emerging visual artists.

About the stellar director:

GABRIELLA GOMEZ-MONT was born in Mexico City. She is the founder of Tóxico, and divides her time among different projects as a writer, magazine editor, cultural curator and documentary filmmaker. She has won several awards in different disciplines, such as the Best Art Practice Award (given by the italian Goverment), and the FOPROCINE grant for Mexican Filmmakers. Gabriella is also currently a TED Senior Fellow (2010-2012).

Finally a New Post!!!

2010-08-20T16:12:00.000-07:00

Hi All!

Sorry to have been off the map for a while! This has been a hectic summer for me.

I moved to a new place, went to Brazil for some healing work, and now, am off to Mexico City to teach a class with Tema Stauffer! By the way, we are teaching the extended version at ICP in the fall... rock on!

The next entry is about the class and about the organization where we will be working.

I hope to stay connected in the future....

Uninspired Sundays Need Resuscitation

2010-06-13T14:55:00.000-07:00

"Tara at Rockaway Beach", Rockaway Park, NYC, Date Unknown, Juliana Beasley

The day started too late. I should count my blessings that despite the drizzly cloudy day, it is warm outside. But, I am inside trying to motivate myself to do the unthinkable--that is what has been sitting on my hutch for months. Yes, that wretched task of organizing paperwork.

I can wash dishes, I can make my bed, I can even create piles of paper to clear off surfaces--all self-taught in adulthood-- but, I become terrified and befuddled and lost when it comes to going through papers, making order and putting them away in files.

This is my dire attempt at hitting those piles of receipts and I don't even know what anymore... since as they say, out of sight, out of mind.

I need to trick this sneaky mind that will find anything to do that will distract me from the inevitable of organizing these sheets of hell that continue to infiltrate my attempts of keeping a still and unpolluted mind... as they say, "Quiet Mind". My mind however is still not quiet or still and might never shut up. But, even if to live in the delusion that I have some kind of control over the material things around me... I am determined to put these blaring nuisances away in folders.

The trick is this:

I put up photographs on my blog to cheer me up. Every photographer knows this. Sometimes, a refresher of looking at past images taken can lift the spirit, especially, if fond memories are attached to them. And always the reminder of "Yes, i am a photographer"! That ego bolstering can then be transferred into the courage to fight that bastard called procrastination. Or at least, it has been helpful medicine in the past.

So, I present photographs from the Rockaways.

Yes, the Rockaways, that never ending seaside retreat that has been part home, part sadness, part sweetness and love. I have not been out there in a very very long time. For a variety of reasons of which I regret that I will not inform you at this point in time. As we all know, with the passage of time, any event can seem less intense, it mellows and a whole new interpretation is found.

I will return to my adopted home, however. The Atlantic and sand beckons me and so, do the stories and voices and hugs of my friends out there. Upon finding these old files of negatives scanned, I unearthed my seconds... pictures that I have not shown publicly.

Photographs that I took with 35 mm film, with my fab Contax( I forget the number of it actually) and some with the Contax T2.... damnation! I miss the Contax.

So, here goes.... I hope to continue to pull out some of these "seconds" till I can come to reckon with this past year... a new book, a new home shortly and a relationship rekindled.

I plan to put up more over the next couple of weeks.

All of the following photographs have shoot dates but I haven't taken the time yet to look through my notes and negatives to tell you when. All I can tell you is that they were taken more than 3 or 4 years ago. Things have certainly changed out there since I took these photographs.

"Charlie Sleeping", Rockaway Park, NYC, Date Unknown, Juliana Beasley

"Charlie's Sink", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Frieda Smoking at the Palm Gardens", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Crossing Broad Channel #2", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Park Inn Resident On Boardwalk", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Patsy Showing Her Breasts", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Corridor Adult Residence for the Mentally Ill", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

"Deuce At Paddy's Place", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley

A New Book and a Festival in the South of France

2010-05-19T18:26:00.000-07:00

The Book Cover of "Sete 2010 #2010

Last week, I went to a remarkable gathering in Sete, a small fishing port in the south of France. A gathering of hard working documentary photographers organized by CeTaVoir.

The festival is 3 years old and called "Images Singulieres". It was a simple event organized by Giilles Favier, Valerie Laquittant, Christian Caujolle, a hard working staff and many many volunteers... Bravo to all of them. We had a blast! Wow, delicious home cooking served to delicacy from the talents of Francoise Davidenko and arduous staff!

And a big thanks to Nathalie Belayche of Food for Your Eyes who introduced my "Last Stop: Rockaway Park" work to CeTaVoir.

Last year in September I lived in Sete for 5 weeks... I previously mentioned the work while I was still working on it in 2009. It was a crazed idea that we actually pulled off-- make a book of something in the order of 60 images to publish as a book within 7 months time, from the time I began shooting 120 rolls of 120 film from the time that the work went to press in April.

Unbelievable, right? Or at least, I thought so. I still can't believe I survived, that we all came together to do this and now have an object. We have a book of portraits of the people of Sete and the tourists that pass through the city, parking their campers on the edge of town along the French Mediterranean.

As I sit here in my dining room, listening to the soothing tunes of Krishna Das lulling me to peace, I am far away from the challenge of last year of creating a piece of work in a short amount of time without losing my crackers or returning home with a acidic hole in my stomach.

That said, I did it! Just like the other two residents before me, Anders Petersen and Bertrand Meunier, given the same honor of working with free film to shoot, a book to be published and a show at a welcoming festival, I survived the the fear of coming up short, of the day to day, moment to moment, of meeting new subjects and captioning a personal vision of Sete. I found it without much intellect, but in chaos without reason or structure. I rolled with the punches and the truth of the moment. Perhaps, making art is putting the cerebral aside and just feeling the internal as well as the external and bringing them together in a clear moment of connection between model and subject.

In the end, I learned a new skill that made it all the worthwhile... I learned to make connections quickly with subjects and began to trust my creative intuition. Well, spent time!!

The week went quickly. I must make note of others who helped along the way.... Andre Frere of the French fine art publishing house, Images En Manoeuveres. We worked tediously over the last couple of months through Skype conversations, winter colds, his busted foot, and other unmentionables. I also have to thank my photo agency, Contact Press Images of which so many members, editors, photo directors stood by my side on this side. And I need to thank the city, the subjects in the book and mayor of Sete who let me scramble around, take their photograph and with great dignity!

The show was a success... the curator and writer of the book, Christian Caujolle did a lovely job of bringing the work to life at a historic site on a hill above the ocean. All good, all very good.

Not, to mention there was a wonderful line-up of photographers from abroad whose work was equally blessed to be hung in enchanting historic building around the center of the city. Some of the photographers include:

Jacob Holdt
Micheal Ackerman
Christopher Anderson
Lars Tunbjork
Gleb Kosorukov
Pieter Ven Hoopen

Sete is a wonderful place where the average non photophile has a curiosity for art and photography. It was a pleasure to see some many of the natives come to the shows and slide shows that Gilles Favier and Valerie Laquittant organized.

Please, take the time to look at the sites of not only the photographers that were part of the festival, but also, the festival itself. I felt proud to be in their company.

For now, the book is available through the publisher or with French Amazon.

Soon distribution will hit the states and other international locations.

Yes, I will keep you informed as I learn of the progress!

Peace as always!

Lapdancer Excerpt #3

2010-02-12T16:58:00.000-08:00

"No Comment", Ft. Myers, FL, 2001. Juliana Beasley

In one topless no-contact club in New York City, a fellow dancer in the dressing room suggested I allow the customer to touch my breasts for a minute or two in exchange for a good tip. And so one night I was pimped out by an overly zealous and greedy club hostess and sent up the black-lit stairs to the champagne room with a polite and very drunk Japanese businessman. We were escorted to our cheap cafe table in the corner while the hostess, using the finest etiquette, presented the label of the bottle to the customer. After ensuring her own tip on his credit card, I was left alone to entertain the gentleman. Eye on my wristwatch, I went through the usual routine: fifteen minutes of champagne drinking, party chat, and a half-hour of table dancing and neck massage. As a grand finale, I reluctantly tried out the minute-grope ploy. For two brief moments he touched my breasts. Then with a cheerful grin I said that was enough. It was the beginning of the end before I left that club.

"Stage Work", Las Vegas, NV, 2001. Juliana Beasley

Come with me. I really want to dance for you.

When I discovered lap dancing, I was delighted because my job description was cut and dry—no more conniving for tips. I provided a service and was paid upfront. I had the freedom of choice to interact with customers verbally if I cared to, but my income didn’t depend on me making conversation with men or developing regulars. If they were difficult, I always had the option of turning my back and walking away. Since alcohol is not served in nude clubs, I never felt the pressure to sit with a customer for drinks, which invariably left me with a hangover the next morning. I personally found it less emotionally taxing.

Besides doing the obligatory dance sets—either sharing the stage with other dancers or performing alone—I made the majority of my money walking up to customers and soliciting “private dances”—lap dances—and taking them into “private” areas of the club. Private dances are really not so private: they are often wedged between undulating couples biding for space. During peak hours on Fridays and Saturdays, customers and dancers wait their turn outside the lap dance room.

A lap dance has a beginning, a middle, and an end. First, I would systematically lay down a cloth on the customers’ laps, then grind against their crotches, either by straddling them frontally or by rubbing my buttocks against their groins. In nude lap dance clubs, many dancers carry around personal wraps or leave them in the lap dance room. They lay the material across customers’ laps to provide a hygienic barrier between themselves and rough or dirty pants and unwanted fluids.

"Pregnant Dancer #1", Las Vegas, NV, 2001. Juliana Beasley

In a way a lap dance is like being a teenager again—rubbing one’s genitals against another without actually having intercourse. Customers keep their clothes on. I do remember one unusual occasion when a drunken customer pulled out his penis, and I politely told him “to put it away”—which he did. I felt more like a mother scolding a child than an erotic dancer.

Once in a while the customer was too obese to wrap my legs around, making me feel like a splayed chicken awkwardly bobbing up and down. So instead I would kneel between his legs and rub my breasts against his crotch, mimicking other more well-endowed, voluptuous dancers. This method was also a relief when my hip and knee joints began to fail me at the end of the night. After wearing stiletto heels for eight to ten hours a night, I preferred to do most of my work sitting down.

"Neon Sign", New Jersey, 2001. Juliana Beasley

For several years I worked in a lap dance club where customers were allowed to touch my ass, and at the time it didn’t bother me (sometimes the kneading even felt like a deep tissue massage to sore muscles). In another “hands-on” club in Jersey, which I nicknamed the Inferno, beautiful dancers would fly in from all over the country just for the chance of working a three-day booking where they would make $3000 plus. Because the manager had a penchant for large-breasted blondes, I actually felt fortunate to be hired. But after the three-day stint, burning candles and incense trying to meditate it out in my hotel room, I decided to quit, no matter how great the money was. I couldn’t just smile through it. I was completely enraged by men touching my breasts. I felt out of control, violated. I was relieved to finally find clubs where customers were told to keep their hands braced to the sides of their chairs, bouncers at the ready. I had found my own personal boundaries—every dancer does.

On a conscious level I discovered I could turn myself off emotionally. I then worked on automatic, transforming every man that followed me into the lap dance room into a twenty dollar bill. Sometimes it seemed that the only way I could tolerate the monotony was by focusing on numbers. As I methodically went from customer to customer, I slipped into a mental trance: a rhythmic meditation of counting songs, counting dances, counting singles, counting twenties, counting customers.

I habitually performed the same sequence of moves for each customer, whispering to him in his ear near the end of the song, “Would you like another dance?” Lap dancing had become an intense physical workout and an emotional no-brainer. I felt victorious as I kept each succeeding customer underneath me, knowing that with every gyration I was closer to emptying their wallets—and filling my garter. A positive attitude, a good sales pitch, and the physical stamina to keep hustling until the club’s last call were vital in meeting my nightly goals.

However subversive my job might have seemed to the outside world, for me it was just another day at the office. I provided a service and was well paid. I often compared lap dancing to waitressing in a diner. “Turn and burn ’em” became my personal decree; my earnings were based on bulk rather than on quality. For $20 a song, the key was to keep the customer hard. Or not hard, depending on the customer. After years of dancing, if I were to conjure up one of these customer’s faces today, besides a few memorable regulars, I would permanently pause on the image of a blurred face wearing a baseball cap.

I’m going to give you the best lap dance you ever had.

When the monotony of the job began to wear me thin, and the customers seemed to be getting bored watching me dance five days a week in my “home” club in Jersey, I convinced a dancer friend to hit the road with me. The options were endless—Florida, Texas, Hawaii, Guam, Europe, Japan. The geographical solution was based on the theory that, at least in the short term, being the “new girl” in a chosen club might increase my income.

"Mint Lounge", Miami, Florida, 2001. Juliana Beasley

Many of the dancers traveled back and forth from Florida—like Michelle, who owned several condos near Miami and rented an apartment in Jersey. There I might meet dancers from all over the country and abroad who might convince me to come work at their home club, or who might offer insight into clubs in other cities. The names of good clubs are highly coveted pieces of information. It makes sense to only tell your closest confidante where the money is being made before news runs like wildfire and every dancer in the vicinity floods the club, destroying business for the lucky few who got there first.

"Cowboy", Tampa, Florida, 1995. Juliana Beasley

One February, when the low season in New York set in, a dancer named Kaylani and I took a working vacation to Tampa where high season was just beginning. Driving from the airport, we plugged the driver for valuable stripper information—where the strip clubs were, which ones were the best, which ones we should stay clear of, phone numbers for take-out, and the nearest tanning and nail salons. Taxi drivers, often independent contractors like strippers, are reliable allies in unfamiliar towns. We set up our home base at the local Indian family-owned Howard Johnson, unpacked our makeup, and prepared for that night’s auditions. Within a day or two, we had pinpointed the most lucrative clubs and agreed on the one that seemed the most tolerable.

With every new club came a new stage name. I changed my name as often as I changed the style and color of my hair. Nico sounded too butch outside of New York. In Tampa I was Sophie; in Hawaii I was Jessie; in Reno I was Amanda; in New Jersey I was River—and so on. Traveling to different cities definitely broke up the assembly-line quality of the business (bend over, smile, grab a dollar), but after expenses proved less lucrative than staying home and working at one particular club as a “house dancer.”

Working in Hawaii proved in particular to be a painful experience because most of the house dancers at the club despised me. I was accused of selling dances at half-price and allowing customers to touch me. True, I didn’t socialize much with the other dancers, but you had to be a dedicated hustler to make up the costs of hotel rooms and flight tickets and still return home with some savings. When I walked into the dressing room, conversations would halt. When I finished my dance set on stage, none of the dancers applauded. It was incredibly alienating, but I was determined to stay despite friends in New York urging me to return to the mainland. Eventually I did make one friend, a fellow hustler. And then I left town.

Coming home to a lonely hotel room, I suspected, was not a far cry from what many of the customers on business trips felt—just another hour, sit with the pretty girl until last call, then back to an empty room with over-bleached towels, stiff bedding, and a remote control, dreams and fantasies left behind.

"Lapdancer" Excerpts #2

2010-02-07T05:17:00.001-08:00

"Jillian", Mons Venus, Tampa, Florida, 2001(?) Juliana Beasley

The following excerpt is taken from my introduction from "Lapdancer", powerHouse, 2003. Over the next couple of months, I will be reliving my years working as a stripper and the subsequent making of the book.

Please, inform me if the excerpts are too long to keep you involved. If so, I can shorten them. However, I imagine some of you savvy blog folks are used to keeping your eye on the monitor. Have fun and enjoy the dance!

Introduction

A couple of years after I had graduated from NYU, I began working in a strip club in Queens. It was to be one of many clubs that I would pass through over the following eight years, and it was there that I first encountered the notion of being a professional, business-minded stripper.
Sitting at the juice bar (nude clubs in New York were not permitted to serve alcohol), relaxing between half-hour dance sets, I became friends with Beth, a dancer from Florida with a laugh that you could hear from the stage all the way to the dressing room.

After asking the usual—”Where are you from? How old are you? How long have you been dancing?”—I asked the other predictable question: “What are your plans when you get out?” She told me about her goal to save $100,000 and invest it in real estate and the stock market before quitting. Beth was just one of many disciplined strippers that I got to know over the years who were determined to leave the business with enough money to allow them to retire permanently or start some other kind of venture. Meeting her and discovering her resolve marked a turning point in my dancing career. For the first time I realized that I had the potential of amassing a substantial nest egg—one that unfortunately I felt I would never make as a freelance photographer.

Besides, I was happier having a job where I was able to set my own guidelines and schedule instead of the alternative: working as a photographer’s assistant for a fraction of the earnings, turning in numerous invoices that weren’t paid on time, being yelled at, and taking the brunt for mistakes on photo shoots. I was also tired of carrying around their equipment and running behind them in a sweat. In dancing, I felt like I had regained my self-esteem.

"Dancer with Female Customer", New Jersey, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I named myself Nico, inspired by the heartless blonde German model-turned-rock-icon from the Velvet Underground. I believed her name would provide a constant reminder of the stamina and strength I would need to get the job done.

I created an impossible schedule of self-inflicted boot camp for myself. Totally immersed in the “cult of the strippers,” I lived my life by a timetable and a calculator I kept at my bedside. After work, at 3:00 in the morning, I pulled down the shades in my apartment, counted my earnings on the bathroom floor, and diligently jotted the figures down in my agenda. The plan was to get out of the business within a couple of years. Working eight to ten hours a day, five to six days a week, I was determined to meet the strict goals I had set for myself. I never accounted for physical burnout, the frequent colds and chronic bronchitis induced by customers’ cigars and cigarettes and the clubs’ smoke machines, and the emotional fatigue of staying in character every night.

The stripper lifestyle has its own comforting and predictable routine. Sleeping until 11:00 a.m. (or later, as the week progresses), I drag my tired body out of bed across my studio apartment. A sore body is a reminder of a night well spent, money made, counted, and stashed in forever changing hiding places. Mysteriously browned and callused knees and elbows offer further evidence of my nightly pursuits. Some mornings, I awake still brooding over a night when I have fallen below my average, and berate myself for my lack of motivation on the job or some other possible personal defect that might explain falling short of my quota.

A shower would follow, then a walk into the daylight to a local restaurant where I would sit alone, ponder my future, and reward myself with a sensible non-fattening meal in my trendy Manhattan neighborhood. I hardly had time to hand wash my costumes. They smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the sweet perfumes customers complement me on. Instead I opt for a nap, awake, pop three Advil, and an hour later pick up a double espresso on the run, toting my work duffel bag filled with my best moneymakers—a tight leopard-print dress, a silver Brazilian bikini, a sequined mini, and stiletto heels. One might have thought I was just another ballet dancer running off to a class in the middle of the day.

"Customer #1", New Jersey, 2000, Juliana Beasley

At first it was buses, trains, and taxis; then later, private drivers like Aman, the yellow cabbie who doubled as my therapist, forever bolstering my spirits like a trainer with his boxer before entering the ring. We would make the usual stops: coffees, brownies, bottles of Jack Daniels. Several blocks before arriving at the designated club, I would let out a sigh. No, I don’t want to go. I’m too tired. I’m sick of the men and I’m even sick of the girls.

He teases me, “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” I reply.

Next came Aramis, the crazy-eyed driver from Uruguay who charged less than Aman, but with him there would always be the risk of getting into some sort of collision, like the time we hydroplaned across three lanes on the Westside Highway, hit a marker on the side of the road, and flipped his Suburban. But the price was right and I was determined to keep expenses low, even at the risk of dying next to a man whose conversational skills consisted of “Hi, Nico.”
The structure I’d created for myself was satisfying for the most part because I immediately saw the results of my hard labor. Here I was, an unskilled worker, earning double what my friends in “straight” jobs were making.

I loved the music, dancing on stage, and the instant connections I made with fellow dancers—and at times, even with customers. For eight hours on nights I danced, I was taking a break from my own complex and contradictory life. In reality I rarely dreaded going to work, unlike with other jobs I had had in the past. Dancing felt emotionally cathartic, empowering, and at times just like another creative extension of myself. I developed my dancing style partially by mimicking other dancers and partly through trial and error. I performed five days a week to a normally adoring public. Sometimes it felt like being a rock star, or what I imagined being a rock star might feel like: discounts on hotels, personal drivers, and makeup.

Do you want a really hot dance? You won’t be disappointed

Like many of the dancers I worked with over the years, I started my career in the local topless dive bar, and after a month graduated to working in the fully nude-lap dance clubs and never looked back. I chose working in fully nude clubs over other strip club formats like go-go or topless dancing because it offered the highest cash earnings for what I believed to be the least amount of mental and physical stress.

In so-called “no-contact” clubs, a dancer makes most of her money not only by being well dressed and dolled up, but ultimately by her ability to be a good conversationalist. The most beautiful girl in the club isn’t necessarily the one making the most money—it’s the dancer who is patient, covertly demanding, and capable of laughing at even the crassest jokes.

In these clubs, dancers make their money table dancing, swaying between the legs of a customer, and, employing the classic stripper move, tossing their heads around and showering their long tresses or hair extensions over the heads of the mesmerized. Supposedly there isn’t any physical contact. Yet different clubs have different sets of spoken and unspoken rules. One club might have a hands-off policy, with a bouncer watching the customer’s every move; another club might allow customers to touch more liberally. Rules existed to be observed or disregarded, depending upon the individual dancer and the management.

"Couch Dance", Philadelphia, PA, 2001, Juliana Beasley

Another variation is the champagne room, or the VIP room, in which the dancer or cocktail waitress convinces the customer to buy a bottle of champagne and spend a “private” hour in a room often full of other couples hidden discreetly behind fake plants. One night at a club in Manhattan, I spent eight hours in the champagne room with three different customers. By 10:00 I was on my third bottle of Moët, and I was trashed. I staggered to the men’s room and asked the attendant if he had any suggestions for topics of conversation, so I wouldn’t appear too lifeless.
Prices in the VIP room are invariably high, and the dancers make their money on a small percentage of sales and tips. By the end of the hour I often had difficulty convincing a customer to tip me $100 when he had already doled out $300 plus to the club for something inevitably less than he had expected. I got sick of listening to an hour of often dull sexual fantasies and clumsy advances, then being subjected to the humiliation of begging for uncertain tips.