"This was one of the saddest young women I ever met on the street. She was homeless and was living in an area downtown Los Angeles where many homeless people live in tents or makeshift shelters. She seemed so lost and forlorn. I gave her a few dollars."

Dick Sanders

From April of 2006 through September of 2008 I spent many Saturday afternoons at 5th & Main Streets in downtown Los Angeles. Two years ago drug dealing crews operated on this corner: it was rough by day and dangerous at night. Today, more police walk the streets, the downtown is undergoing renewal, and new shops, galleries and cafes are opening. But in the early afternoons during this time, I would set up in the shade and ask passersby if they would stand for a portrait. Most declined my request because they were in a hurry, did not wish to be photographed, or were suspicious of my intentions. To the few who did cooperate, I gave simple directions: stand here, look into the lens, please be serious. Getting a successful portrait -- one that is both personally revealing and suggestive of something larger -- is extremely difficult in the minute or two my subjects allow me on the street. Always I am striving to capture a "longer period of time" in their faces. But whether I succeed with the portraits or not, I love interacting with my subjects, and I am continually amazed at how some of them can reveal things very private, even painfully so, during our brief encounters. I thank them for what they have given here, and I hope in the film you will see (or feel) what we all share in common.

My guitarist friend, Danny Combs (dannycombs.com), wrote original music for this show. After seeing my street portraits, and also spending time teaching poor children in Nashville, Tennesee how to play guitar, he was inspired to write "Waiting For Paradise," a beautifully haunting original score for guitar and cello. I hope you enjoy the photographs and his music .


-- Dick Sanders, December 2008.

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não sabia que eras tu. ainda que já conhecesse a crueldade da imagem. não sabia que eras tu a amolecer verbos como se a testa fosse o braço e o caminho um vento a levar-me a voz. onde a estrada soa a terra. não sabia mesmo. não sabia que o portão fechava a porta, e cedo, muito cedo, o luar não passava de uma noite empedrada na garganta do tempo.

disse-te que dentro dos teus olhos o pintor revolvia a terra. ou então não disse nada.

um dia hei-de miar à lua. ou então não digo nada.

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