a Face. a Name. a Remembrance.

Today I sat on the pavement in central London with a homeless man named Patrick.

Patrick originally hails from northern England, near Liverpool.  I'm not sure what prompted me to ask if the spot of pavement next to him was free, or if he minded if I joined him.  Maybe it was his boyish posture, the way he sat cross legged with his back against the wall and his elbows resting on his knees, like a young school boy bored of the classroom carpet circle.  Or perhaps it was the distant gaze, looking from eyes that were a beautiful shade of cornflower blue surrounding gold flecked centers, with a countenance far beyond their years.  I had a few pound coins in my pocket, but Patrick wasn't asking, his cup of McDonald's tea resting gently between his hands, respected for its warmth against the cool late spring chill.

We didn't talk of much, mostly of Liverpool and the unseasonably cold weather.  He asked about my schooling and a few of the West End shows I'd recently seen. In the end I gave Patrick the coins, apologizing for their insignificance, but hoping they could at least be useful in buying him another cup of warm tea. I'm not sure if I did much for Patrick, other than provide a cup of tea and friendly chat, but he gave me a lot.  He gave me his name.  Patrick gave me a story and a soul to go along with that rush hour glance of homelessness - a picture that would have stayed with me long after my life in London had faded away.  Patrick gave me the parting image of a smile.

Later I met Benjamin; a lower arm amputee musician playing in the Green Park tube station. I stopped and listened to him play, fascinated with his skill and with the passersby who halted and backtracked to drop a few bob in his guitar case. Earlier in the day, I had a wonderful intermission chat with the woman sitting next to me in the theatre.  A woman who was so thrilled to be seeing Singin' in the Rain on stage before it closes next week.

It's curious how we can at times feel alone in a crowded place surrounded by people - people who are just a  glance, a word, a smile away.  I think we often get busy in our own lives and concerns and forget to look outside ourselves (or beyond the screens of our gadgets).  I know that I've become absorbed in my student-self lately, and it feels so good to breathe and look beyond those bounds.  I've missed taking photos, and blogging, and sharing my experiences with others.  I've missed being more open to others sharing themselves with me.  I have had a few wonderful adventures squeezed in between school dates and deadlines, and I'm looking forward to sharing them with all of you, as I've been planning to for the last few months.  And today, Patrick taught me a new way to make my adventures more meaningful.

I came back from my Easter holiday in India with a camera full of faces - faces full of youth, of wisdom, of joy, and of sadness - beautiful faces without names. I love photographing people as I travel.  I love capturing the expression I see in their countenance, the emotion of their stance, the way they fit into their surroundings. But, I always feel as if I've taken something, without giving in return.  I treasure my photos, but I leave my beloved subjects little to treasure in return.  Patrick changed that for me, and while I don't have a photograph of him, I learned what my art has been missing: It has vision but not substance, for the sight of someone's soul without knowledge of their human identity feels hauntingly incomplete.

And so I've given myself a new goal. One that will hopefully help me to broaden myself and give back a little to all those wonderful people who touch my life, in many diverse ways. I'm going to be more mindful of those around me, and reach out more to others, in whatever level or form they may be; family, friend, acquaintance, or stranger. I'm going to put names with faces and stories with names, and, if they'll allow (and I can contrive tactful ways of asking) document images with substance.

In addition to being the day I met Patrick, today is also my mother's birthday.  My grandfather's is tomorrow, followed by mine on Friday. In honour of all they've given me through my wonderful 29 years of life, I'm going to make them the inaugural subjects of my new photo series - Real People: Personal Truths

This is my mother, Lorrie Ann Cox, with her mother, my grandmother Janice June Caldwell Cox. 

I took this photo last summer, and it is one of my favourite photographs of all time.

My mother may complain of her lack of makeup and working-in-the-garden hair, and my grandmother may shy away from the lens for her wrinkles, but all I see is joy.  I love going home to visit and stay with my mother.  She hasn't always had things easy, and like so many we could dwell on hardships of years past, but while my mother's less desirable experiences have helped to shape her, they do not define her.  My mother is quiet, but strong.  She is hard working and independent, but her heart revolves around family.  She is fresh vegetables and homemade pickles, evening country walks and country radio dancing in the kitchen, homemade haunted houses and scary movie marathons, winter snow sculptures and summertime fresh cut lawns.  She is the trailblazer who opened the path for my educational endeavors.  It was her nightly bedside kneeling and beautiful simple faith that strengthened and fed my own soul. I once asked my mother why she stayed so faithful a midst so much strife, and she replied "because it felt right". That is who my mother is to me, a beautiful smiling woman who lives and loves simply (and profoundly) because it feels right.

This is my maternal grandfather, Randall Cox, with my nephew, Ashton.

I have several other more facially revealing photos of my grandfather, but I chose this one because it embodies who my grandfather is to his grandchildren - a big playful grizzly bear.

I say grizzly - and not teddy - bear, because my grandfather is gruff, and deep, and covered in a scruffy beard most of the winter.  Babies are nervous and yet simultaneously fascinated by him.  Kids just adore him.  He's a major tease, and will play ball, pull pranks, and chase you around the yard at full speed, sometimes with a hose.  He's several years younger than my grandmother, and married her at a young age when she already had six children. They later adopted my uncle from India. He's not a man of many words, but I love his grunts, and his hardworking callus covered strong fingers, and his back breaking grizzly bear hugs.