Photography! Baku! Arts!
October 13, 2009
On September 19th Azra, Javad and I opened ‘First Step’ at YarAdAn Gallery in Baku.
Showcasing the photography of youth from Seki, Zaqatala, Mingacevir, Goycay, and Xacmaz, the event was the first of its kind held in Azerbaijan. Part gallery show, part publicity event, part celebration, we estimated over 300 people visited over a 2 day period.
(Apologies for the somewhat blurry snaps)
Azra and I take a moment to shamelessly pose at the entrance.


Javad-gallery owner-artist-psychologist- extraordinaire interviewed by the press. (In reality, the youth that attended gave more interviews than Azra, Javad or I, however, no snaps of that)

The Xacmaz crew reprezents! H font and center and L on the right were amazingly bold in talking portraits in the community-they also swooped in to help endlessly with translating.

Chilling in the street front room.

Y-my self proclaimed ‘brutha’ from Seki next to one of his portraits.

A-the right hand man for Azra and I in Seki, he was the saving grace when working at the Yaddash Orphanage-if I could adopt brothers, A and Y would be top picks. A took some of the most original photos of the entire summer.

Mr. French next to Mr. J-my two aficionados of style, culture and hipster-ism-we have snooty conversations about snooty topics while waving around cheap smokes and making sarcastic jokes.

Sometime during the after party, Azra and I had an ‘Oh. Wow. We did it!’ moment and then followed up with a victory snap shot. Lovely.

Retro thoughts.
October 5, 2009
I had not returned to Jorat in 2 years. When I had left I was angry, scared and hopeful. And now, as I rode in a car, along the sea road, like I had so many times in that ’07 summer, thoughts and feelings unexpectedly rushed to the surface. Nostalgia: usually reserved by the populous for cliché memories of past loves is reserved by me for the flatness and heat, the burning wavy lines that made ratty Ladas take on fantastic shapes, the noise and dirty air, the tension below the surface of people at once restless for something new but languid in heat that suffocated even the sharpest thoughts, the same fisherman casting his line next to the spewing sewage pipe-it shocked me on my first morning walk; the smell of oil and excrement that became familiar, the thin film of blackness that covered my clothing and skin after every wander or stolen moment of peace smoaking a forbidden cigarette- Nate and I and Misvig would sneak to the sea shore at dusk, huddling in the wind to light our Wests, mostly not talking, just being and looking out across the sea-Jorat; frighteningly strange for a small American girl-the men yelling nasty remarks about the paleness of my skin, ‘Fish’ they called me and still do-I had never thought to miss it, the sleepless nights, listening to the sea, but that is what I remember most distinctly, the jet lag and culture shock causing nights of wakefulness and tossing, the first night I couldn’t sleep, when the yard was finally quite I thought a water pump was running, but no-walking out my door to the crumbling stoop, I could hear it, waves, a small sound of water, a backdrop to everything else, calming and distant-when he would yell and scream and hit the family, I would wait, straining to hear the distant crashing of waves on the sea shells that made up the beach-every pause in the one sided argument, I would try and catch the calm, beyond the sounds of hitting and stomping and distress. That is why I had left with anger and fear, and now, riding in the car, to the wedding of the daughter, I realized that those petty emotions had gone, foolishly I tried to conjure up bitterness, but nothing, a breath of calm, so often I had despaired over the lack of ability to change myself into a better person, and of course, no one can be truly good-but the calm is knowing, being in Jorat and not being angry anymore.
Yaxsi Yol AZ5!!!
September 29, 2009
To fanfair, drunken speeches, random hugs and breathless confessions of undying love, sometime in Sept. most of AZ5 left the Azerbaijan for travel, jobs, grad school, significant others, Americastan, mediocrity, success, and the occasional nostalgic thought of the ‘Baijan.
It was difficult to see them leave-my rag tag group of once clean always idealistic Americans-we had weathered 2 years of amazing experiences-survived squat toilets, stomach aids, vomiting out our body weight after libations at a Toy, not showering for 2 months, and piva at the Dove-we had broken new ground in cultural exchange by dancing the JumpRope in dive bars, the Robot at toys, and busting the Airplane with every Faried, Elnor and Faud-with the grace of a sledge hammer we stumbled over more cultural faux-paux then the population of the villages many of us lived in-sometimes profound, sometimes madly frustrating, but never, ever, ever, dull, life in the AZ was top notch for us all-to sum up, in the words of one Donald Stevens Jr. “We are in frickin AZERBAIJAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
AZ5, their time has ended here-my Azerbaijan adventure carries on. Exhilarating.
I miss for you and kisses you all!
Fresh Photography from AZ Youth
September 17, 2009









“First Step” – Exhibition of photography
September 15, 2009


YarAdAn project,
In cooperation with Azra Vardar (Germany) and Colleen MacDonald (USA)
With generous support from Union of Azerbaijan Photographers and Asiyat Fatullayeva
Over the 3 summer months of 2009, youth ages 13-21, in the regions of Mingechevir, Goychay, Zaqatala, Xachmaz and Sheki participated in an intensive one week introductory digital photography course. The course was taught by volunteers with the purpose of not only introducing photography, but also introducing and encouraging creative expression. For the youth, it was the first time they had used a camera. Learning how to focus, try different angels and frame, the youth spent a week in their communities photographing people, objects and themselves. The youth were bold in their approach; playing with everyday items to make them fantastic and fearlessly stepping in front of the camera themselves and to produce art that is both playful and relevant
eye candy while you wait.
September 2, 2009

Color from the BusStops on the Goychy-Ming. Yol.
(Lomo prints posted here in Dec.)











Rain drops keep falling on my nose…
August 27, 2009
This morning Mr.T and I went running, then, it started to pour…
Lightning.
Splashing through puddles.
The sound of rain.
Soaking wet.
I almost couldn’t stop laughing at how happy it made me. It is one of those glorious things, like kindness from strangers, pda, hot water, phone calls from that person, seeing a good looking guy, etc that mostly don’t happen here in the ‘Baijan.
‘…n I’m gonna run for as long as I’m allowed…’
August 19, 2009
It seems (due to the high volume of questions from various people) that the general opinion is that I’m staying here longer (a year or so) due to the presence of a significant other person. It’s probably a good time to point out that besides ‘lack of prospects in the AZ’ (and this I could care less about), living with roaches on steroids (who see all my major and minor appendages as tasty treats), no water (at. All.) and the general populous thinking I’m a lose woman (because I like to run in the AM), are not exactly circumstances I’d like to stay in simply because I was keen on a dude. Rumor has it though, that a lady in Peace Corps (near my own age) is staying in the AZ for precisely that reason, (engagement)- married bliss awaits around the corner for them, and I wish them many years of joy lacking any sort of gold grills or tight faux leather pants.
Rather, staying here was an idea that’d been running circles in my brain for a while(since last August actually) therefore, when given the opportunity to not only expand the Photography for Social Change project but also a chance to work on a few personal photography/documentary projects (generally associated with leftover Soviet Sanatoriums on the Caspian, Secular Islamic Rap Groups, and Bus Stops) it seemed like the right life choice-living for 3 years in a post Soviet, contemporary Islamic country discovering democracy is a photographic gold mine of adventures that doesn’t present itself often.
Of course, a month ago, while hauling boxes, and various personal items out to the street (to the sound of xanims cackling at my odd and so very ‘English Qiz’ possessions) due to once again being kicked out of a flat, I would have given anything to be back in Minneapolis at 3AM talking with Mark about the various ways we could defend our house against the battalion of drunk frat boys relieving themselves on our front door.
So, I’ve jumped in the work fray-frantically (I forgot to pack the Christmas Tree) throwing my possessions together (and the above mentioned high profile exit), leaving the most permanent ‘home’ I’ve had thus far in my 24 months, and depositing kitchen tools with another volunteer, I’ve been living out my pack since the end of June with my collection of film and cameras and a few horridly unfashionable clothing articles. But everything has sorted, as things do-given my summer work-holding photography day camps in various regions, I’d be traveling anyway-best not to have rent payment, and a mostly crazy, toothless landlady hounding you. In between imparting massive amounts of photographic knowledge to hordes of bright youth, (This is worthy of at least 3 posts.) Azra and I have been navigating new territory in the photo realm of ’Foreign Ladies in ‘Baijan Possessed of Charm, Wit, Mad Language Skills and Cameras’-which means, we made a list of places to see over 3 months, checked it twice and celebrated the warmer weather of June/Start of Summer Adventures by conquering ‘The Factory’, ‘Artyom Island’ and ‘Chicken Factory’ (all abandoned and guarded) in top form.
Since then Azra and I have managed to engage in all sorts of photo shenanigans (halved Lenin statues, traveling circuses, giant Soviet telescopes…) as well a few more sobering wanders-one in particular, which, found us in Mardekend (village north of Baku) was a shocking reminder of the mess left over when cultures, ideals, politics and a host of other human meddling converges and explodes. Several attempts have been made on my part to accurately convey (via writing) what we saw and its significance-however, it seems when I try to write, a bit of self doubt creeps in, that, if unable to thoroughly describe Mardekend, I would fail at making anyone see its importance-because somehow, I think Mardekend is important.
Also of importance are the half a dozen or so stories that are collecting dust/taking up hard drive space-eventually or when I find a home, they will make their way here…