Winnipeg Folk Festival

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that this year was my first attending the the Winnipeg Folk Festival. For whatever reason (usually because I can never get the time off work) I've never been able to make the short trek up to Birds Hill. This year I managed to squeeze in the nights between work days.

I fell in love with the landscape of Birds Hill, its aspen oak parklands and prairie grass fields, the colourful sunsets, and the mystically dark forest paths.

The people are numerous and eccentric. High on a combination of intoxicants and/or enthusiasm they spend five days tramping about the campgrounds and fields, dancing to music of their own and others creation.

Parents, kids, teenagers, 20 somethings, it has a broader appeal to all ages than most music festivals I've ever attended.

I had a great time walking around with my camera, looking for meaningful moments in the madness that occurred around me.

Volleyball in Central Park

While walking through Winnipeg’s Central Park with my camera a tall soft spoken man called out in my direction. At first I wasn’t sure he was talking to me, there were plenty of people around, and I thought it was much more likely that he was calling to a friend. But he pointed straight at me and motioned for me to come talk to him, to which I obliged.

As I approached him he stuck out his hand.

“Hello, what is your name?”

I shook his hand and introduced myself.

“Are you a journalist?” A question I’ve started hearing more frequently, even when I’m carrying a relatively spartan camera kit. I told him I was a photographer, not a journalist, the distinction didn’t seem to matter much to him.

“You’ll be interested in our volleyball team.” He motioned towards the turf on the far side of the park where some men were drawing a rectangle on the ground with tape and erecting a volleyball net. “In a few days we will be ready. We will be out in our uniforms and ready to play?”

He explained that in his home country he was well known for his achievements in competitive volleyball.

“Where is home?” I asked

He took a moment to reflect before replying to my query. “I am from the largest country in Africa. Do you know where that is?”

“The Democratic Republic of Congo?” I answered hesitantly while trying to visualize a map of Africa.

“No, No, No. I am from Sudan.”

I felt somewhat ashamed that I hadn’t guess correctly, though a later google search would vindicate my answer as prior to June 2011, Sudan was the largest country in Africa, however the separation of South Sudan has left it behind Algeria and the Democratic Republic of Congo as the largest country by landmass. But all that is really besides the point.

He proceeded to explain Sudan’s independence from the United Kingdom, and listed the dates of independence of many of the other countries in the surrounding region. He asked several questions about Canadian history, such as the date that each province joined the Dominion, but quickly answered his own question before I could even open my mouth.

I asked what brought him to Winnipeg. He paused.

“That is a very good question.” He then explained how in 2003 he was forced to leave Sudan due to the war in Darfur. He, and 400 other Sudanese came to Winnipeg as refugees. He had no real choice as to where he landed. The Federal government set him and his peers up in an apartment building on Carlton Street that borders Central Park. They quickly outgrew the building, a second apartment building on Qu’appelle, was used as well. Now that many of original 400 received permanent resident status and have moved west to Vancouver or east to Toronto, but that the buildings bordering Central Park are still mostly populated by Sudanese.

“Do you know who owns the majority of the oil in Sudan?”

Although I try to stay current and well read on world affairs, I had to admit my knowledge of the Sudanese oil industry is lacking.

“I imagine it is probably the United States, or the UK.”

“No! It is Canada.”

I felt ashamed, knowing that Canada is heavily involved in the exploitation of resources across Africa.

“I don’t imagine many Sudanese see much of that money.” I replied.

“No, you are correct, not many of us profit from it.”

At that moment a friend of his sat down on the bench next to where we were standing. I was introduced with a handshake.

“Greg is here to watch us play volleyball.” He urged his friend to join the others on the far end of the field who were just starting to toss the ball around.

I commented on how every time I wander through Central Park I see people like himself out having fun, interacting with their neighbours, and playing with their kids.

“Yes, when there is no war we just want to be in peace. You live your life and I live mine. We don’t like when people start violence here. When you are here with your kids or walking with your wife you don’t want trouble, we respect the rule of law. This place was not always like this though. When I came here in 2003 it was rough.”

“But then they built this.” He pointed down at the sidewalk, referring more to the overhaul of the entire park, not just the concrete below our feet.

“OK Greg. Go. Talk to my friend down there. You will come back when we have our uniforms and take our pictures.”

“I will. Would it be OK to take your picture now as well?”

“No, not today. I want to look nice. You can see I am not dressed very nice right now.” He looked down at his brown hoodie, frayed grey track pants, and torn shoes. “Come back when I am wearing my uniform and nice shoes.”

I respected his desire not to be photographed. I shook his hand and thanked him for the truly interesting conversation. I then walked over to the volleyball court, nodded to his friends who seemed to approve of my presence, and started taking their pictures. I hung out in the park, watching them practice volleyball for an hour or so. Running to get the ball whenever it was knocked out of play, and smiling along with them when something amusing occurred.

I never got a chance to talk to the team captain who had been pointed out to me, it was starting to rain and I had to make it home, but I hope to return again to watch them play volleyball and hopefully talk to my Sudanese friend, and take his picture.

Disintegration Records at the Windsor

This past Thursday local guitar rock quintet, Haunter, released their album Rivers & Rust. They've spent the last five years playing the songs that would eventually land on the album.

The following night, label mate (and co-founder of Disintegration Records) Greg MacPherson took the stage to play some of his classics and a couple songs from his upcoming album.

Gunshots in West Broadway

I'd just like to clarify something from my previous post. I didn't rush to the scene of a crime just for kicks or to exploit an incident of violence. I rushed out with my camera in order to document and report on what had occurred. Because it was the middle of the night I knew it was unlikely any reportera or press photographers would be on the scene. As a photographer I feel I have an obligation to document significant events if I happen to witness them. I was in contact with local media and trying to update neighbours about what was going on.

I love this neighbourhood and want it to be portrayed realistically and accurately. I hope this incident doesn't whip up too much hysteria about West Broadway being unsafe, because it really isn't. Violence can occur anywhere.

Here's The Winnipeg Free Press piece about the shooting that features one of my photos.

Photographers' Rights

Lately I've been seeing a lot of articles regarding the rights of photographers, both professional and amateur. Among the general population there is a lot of confusion about where one is allowed to take photos, of whom you are allowed to take photos, and what one's expectation of privacy is. This issue most frequently gets raised when a photographer comes into conflict with a police officer. I'm writing this because last night I had such an incident.

It started while I was brushing my teeth. While polishing my pearly whites I vaguely heard three loud bangs. Melissa, who was reading in the living room, shouted out to me that she had heard gunshots. Skeptical, I shoved my face against the window to see if I could hear any commotion in the back lane. The coast was clear, but Melissa was certain about what she'd heard. We turned on the online police scanner, and sure enough others were reporting a shooting just around the corner on Wolseley Avenue.

I grabbed my camera and we headed downstairs and to the scene. When we arrived the cops were already there. Broken glass littered the street, and witnesses were huddled around, smoking and typing away on their phones. I started to snap photos, being diligent not to interfere with the scene or obstruct the police in any way. I circled around, getting photos from various angles and talking to neighbours who had come out to see what all the commotion was about.

Several officers asked if I had seen anything. I explained that I had not, that I only heard the shots and didn't arrive on the scene until after the cops had come. They shot me suspicious looks as I continued to point my camera in their direction, but at no point did any of the dozen or so officers that came and left the scene demand that I stop.

While Melissa was being questioned a second cop approached me to, in his words, "offer some advice." He suggested I not take photos of crime scenes. He said that it looked like I had an expensive camera, and that it would be a shame to have it confiscated as evidence.

I contested this point, stating that I know my rights and that they could not take my camera, regardless of whether they thought it contained photographic evidence, unless they showed me a warrant first. The officer claimed that this was false, and that they could take it and I wouldn't be able to get it back until the investigation was completed and it had been cleared.

I was trying my best to keep my cool but stand my ground. I was pretty certain that what he was telling me was wrong. It seemed too much like an attempt to politely intimidate me. He clarified that he didn't think he'd have to confiscate my camera, but that could be a real possibility in the future.

Unperturbed, I took a few more shots before heading home, still in possession of all my gear.

At no point did I actually feel threatened, but the incident raised an intriguing question. Is a warrant necessary to confiscate camera gear if the police suspect it may have captured a crime or contain other photographic evidence?

As I mentioned, I'm pretty sure a warrant is required, but rather than relying on blog posts for legal advice I'd prefer to hear from a legal professional or a photojournalist with experience.

Questlove

Saturday night I was lucky enough to get a last minute pass to the Questlove DJ set at the Pyramid Cabaret. The vibe in the Pyramid was electric, tons of cool people having a great time. I managed to snake my way through the sweaty crowd to the stage and snap a few photos.