Norwegian Jonas Bendiksen began his career at 20 when he arrived by boat in Vladivostok. He spent the next years based in Russia, working on stories around the outer fringes of the former Soviet Union, resulting in the book "Satellites". Based in New York, he travels extensively, often focusing on isolated enclaves and communities. More info
In 2005, I started work on The Places We Live, a project about urban poverty and slums. For three years, I visited dozens of families in four slums around the world.
The Places We Live was not a search for finding the absolute extremes of urban poverty—I wasn't looking for the dirties spot, the poorest hovels or the most crime-ridden street corner. My task was to find how people normalize these dire situations. How they build dignity and daily lives in the midst of very challenging living conditions.
In the project, I asked someone from each family to "tell me about life around here". Since I do not speak either Spanish, Swahili, Indonesian, Hindi or Marathi, I had one rule-of-thumb during the recordings: As long as the subject talked, I didn't interrupt to get translations of what they were saying. Only when I got transcripts of the recordings months later did I see the wide spectrum of stories told. For me, the process was a sort of protection from projecting too much of my own preconceptions of what slum life involves—and meant the project had to be interactive and collaborative.
Earlier this summer, The Places We Livebook was published, and an exhibition installation launched in Oslo. Now, we've made a Magnum-in-Motion that gives a sample of some of the work.
Oddly, I feel like it is a very different thing putting these stories up on the web, as opposed to the book, magazine articles or exhibition. I had the blessings of all the people in the project to use the material for everything I wanted—I really only used homes where the people were quite eager to tell their stories. But still I somehow can't shake the nagging sensation that putting their homes and lives on the web is somehow different from the other mediums.
Is it that the viewing experience of the book, magazine or exhibition is a more private experience than on the web? Or vice versa? Am I alone to have this feeling, or do others feel the same?
I'll be tuning into the blog for some days here and will happily respond to any questions or comments any of you might have.
I started out in photography with very little formal schooling. In many ways, my education in this business was a one-year internship I did at the Magnum office in London, in 1996-97. I was nineteen at the time, but many responsibilities rested on my young shoulders. I made coffee for thirsty staff members, filed away returns (this was in the pre-digital age), answered phone calls, made tea for staff members, filed away more pictures, and ran to the post office.
Mundane as it sounds, this year turned out to be one of the most valuable experiences I ever had. By being around the offices, I got to spend a lot of time around Magnum photographers coming and going. Seeing them at work, talking to them about photography, showing them my own early stabs at taking pictures, gave me a crash-course in both the great ideals and hard realities of the working photographer. Looking back, I always think that simply being around the office, absorbing the tremendous creative energy of this prolific group of photographers and personalities taught me more than I’d ever learn if I went and got a bachelors degree in photography.
This is part of the reason why I got involved in Magnum Education. I talk to so many young photographers who feel frustrated by traditional photographic education. Students often feel they lack of realistic perspective on the fast-changing industry of photography, or miss exposure to hard-working photographers who realize their own personal projects. I meet many young photographers who are getting assignments and are working hard, but have difficulties formulating their visions for their own, more personal work. Thinking back on my own start, I frequently think a dose or two of the exchange of ideas I got as an intern at Magnum would help many photographers looking for the next step.
That’s what I hope our first Magnum Education event in Oslo March 4th-8th can offer photographers looking for a push. This will be more than just a normal workshop. Since we’ll have 10 Magnum photographers around that week, sharing views and work, I hope students will be part of an unusually intense dialogue about our craft. It will surely be a lot of fun as well, and I hope we manage to make a good informal atmosphere that everyone feels inspired by.
Some people have come to me worrying about the weather up here in sub-arctic Oslo that time of year. March usually brings long-lasting light after the dark winter, and heralds spring. There are, though of course no guarantees of a blizzard-free event, that is the nature of life up north. But fear not! One of the best rules-of-thumb I ever learned as a photographer is - The worse the weather, the better the picture.
Look forward to seeing people here (but bring layers of clothes)!
PS: If you have any questions regarding the workshop don’t hesitate to ask them here. I’ll be frequently checking comments over the next week and will reply as soon as possible. We have had a lot of applicants to the workshops thus far, and it looks like we will fill every slot in the first round of reviewing applicants – deadline January 30th. So those who want to come join us should get their applications in before all the places have gone!
On my way to Indonesia for a month-long assignment in Jakarta, I look out the window of Northwest Airlines flight 07 and take in a sight I used to enjoy. The graceful sweeping wing, the engine humming underneath, and beyond them the gentle gradients of color where the Pacific Ocean meets the atmosphere. But I sit less easily on jet planes now than I used to. It's not that I suddenly harbor fears of terrorist bombs or mechanical errors. Rather, I am assaulted by the reality of some simple, but brutal, numbers:
Right now, by occupying this one coach class seat, I am personally accountable for the release of about eight metric tons of Carbon Dioxide (CO2) into the atmosphere. That is roughly the same amount as the total CO2 emissions if I drove a Hummer H2 SUV every day for an entire year, based on the American suburban annual average of 19,300km.
Dec. 11, 2006. Midway across the Pacific Ocean, 35,000 feet.
Goodbye, and so long, Moral High Ground.
I, like so many of us in photojournalism, do a lot of flying. Earlier this year, I worked in seven countries on three continents within a five-week period. I enjoy Elite Frequent Flyer status on all the major carriers. Truth be told, if I quit traveling like I do, I could probably maintain a fleet of ten sports utility vehicles, leave all the appliances in my apartment on 24/365, and still come out carbon-cleaner than I do right now.
