Dreamt of my father, after a good nights sleep he was strong enough to walk on his own again. He went shopping and bought some stuff, after coming back in his truck I went out to meet him in my garage and help him back into the house. He gave me advise on how to make some things to protect my car.
Then I was in Los Angeles wandering the streets after meeting with a catholic priest and talking about his life. I walked into a shop where various poor African American males were being paid with coins for there daily work. I had my Nepal winter hat on, one man had created art work, work he made in Rwanda. It was a black and white RC photo print with various types of toque type winter hats knitted and attached to the print. I talked to the sales lady about why I was there.
Then I woke up. Dreams are strange! I will probably dream of my father the rest of my life. Dreams pull from your life, memories locked in that you might have forgotten. The coin part for example was from when I was in West Oakland back when I was 21 years old. This part of California is a African American ghetto, then a poor and violent part of the city. I remember photographing Dupree a black trumpet player I met on the streets of San Francisco as he counted his coins on the floor of an abandoned jazz club in West Oakland. It was the money he made on the street playing songs like "Misty" for tourists, he used the funds to buy heroin. I always remember how desperate that was, counting nickels and dimes on the floor. It is something that has always stuck with me, the importance and value of all money. Now almost 30 years later that memory is still in my dreams, still haunting my thoughts.
Then I was in Los Angeles wandering the streets after meeting with a catholic priest and talking about his life. I walked into a shop where various poor African American males were being paid with coins for there daily work. I had my Nepal winter hat on, one man had created art work, work he made in Rwanda. It was a black and white RC photo print with various types of toque type winter hats knitted and attached to the print. I talked to the sales lady about why I was there.
Then I woke up. Dreams are strange! I will probably dream of my father the rest of my life. Dreams pull from your life, memories locked in that you might have forgotten. The coin part for example was from when I was in West Oakland back when I was 21 years old. This part of California is a African American ghetto, then a poor and violent part of the city. I remember photographing Dupree a black trumpet player I met on the streets of San Francisco as he counted his coins on the floor of an abandoned jazz club in West Oakland. It was the money he made on the street playing songs like "Misty" for tourists, he used the funds to buy heroin. I always remember how desperate that was, counting nickels and dimes on the floor. It is something that has always stuck with me, the importance and value of all money. Now almost 30 years later that memory is still in my dreams, still haunting my thoughts.
