Why I Keep Coming Back

Late last night I landed back in Cleveland, Ohio. My second time this year, and one of many trips that I have made to The Land since joining the Guardians in 2017.

Despite arriving to the hotel just before midnight, I rose with the sun this morning and took to the streets with my camera, as I do every day that I am in town.

I walked the usual routes. Euclid and Prospect Avenue, 9th Street and Huron Road, through The Arcade and down to The Flats. Though the seasons have already changed since the last time I was here — cold and damp just six weeks ago has yielded to warm and clear today — familiarity hangs in the air around me.

Though I walk with a bit of haste, I find myself slowing down ocassionally. A bus stop, a mural, a monument. On their own, they are unremarkable places. But I no longer see them that way.

Here and there I had made photographs, yes, but with those images come memories of moments, conversations, and connections.

This is the value of returning to a place. Not simply to get to know it better, but to better understand ourselves.

Over time, the photographs we make become landmarks — serving as memory and reminder of our past selves — what we felt, who we met, and where we were as photographers at the time.

At the corner of Superior Avenue and East Roadway, a bus stop sits in the shadow of a monumental courthouse with some of the finest classical architecture in the city.

A beautiful backdrop for a photograph. Yet a challenging environment under most conditions. It is early morning, and there are people from all walks of life heading to school and work. It is not exactly a welcoming place for a photographer at 6:30 or 7:00am.

However, as I walk past this bus stop now, I remember one of the times that I decided to take a chance on the spot— making portraits with a group of kids as they waited for their bus to school.

I remember my hesitation, their laughter, and the moment I knew we had made something special.

The photograph mattered, but it is the moment the has stayed.

This time last year, I was still learning what I wanted to say with the camera.

I would walk a lot and pass people and places that intrigued me. And yet, more often than not, I would keep walking without making a single image.

Like this mural, which I passed by dozens of times over the course of several trips without so much as one photograph.

Until one morning, I finally decided to stop and wait in front of it.

Click.

The photograph came together in an instant. But what keeps coming back to me now every time I pass the mural is the memory of that morning — when I stopped walking by and finally decided to stay.

There is a long story to tell with this particular photograph amongst a handful of others made at the same location. However, what I remember most about this moment was the sheer excitment I felt as I approached the scene.

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A car was parked near Public Square, and on the back of it, stood up tall against stiff westward gale of wind, was a large, tattered American Flag. I immediately recognized the potential of the moment and quickly got to work.

What occurred afterward, though, is what has become the core memory for me — meeting the driver of the vehicle (who, unbeknownst to me, was fast asleep in the car as I made this image), hearing his story, and making a portrait together.

After the photographs, he asked if I had any spare change. I went looking for an ATM but, unable to find one, returned with a hot coffee and breakfast sandwich. Taking the food, he thanked me, and then walked over to a nearby man living on the street.

“He needs it more,” he told me.

Every time I return to this spot, that’s the story I remember.

Walking Cleveland this morning, I realized what it means to know a place. To navigate it not by street signs, but by photographs and memories.

And that is one of the greatest gifts the camera can give us. Not just photographs of a place, but landmarks of memory. A reason to keep coming back.

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