I didn't write the rules. Why should I follow them? - W. Eugene Smith, photo essayist.
Lens: Visual journalism.
A Nepalese man breaks rocks in Bandipur.
Music is the fuel at a Tibetan resettlement village outside Pokhara, Nepal.
Six 2012 images courtesy of intrepid Elf.
Explore. Discover. Dance. Dream. Create.
Once upon a time there was a king.
The king wanted a painting. He'd heard about a famous painter in a distant village. "I don't care how much it costs," said the king. He sent a messenger to the painter.
"My king wants a painting," said the messenger. "Ok," said the painter, "give me two million gold coins and come back later." The messenger paid.
The messanger came back a year later. "It's not finished yet," said the painter. "Come back later."
Ten years passed.
The messenger returned. "Where is the painting for the king?"
The painter grabbed a canvas and painted a painting. "Here, give this to the king."
"What, you just made it!" said the messenger.
"Yes," said the painter, "but I've been thinking about it for ten years."
“Are you with us?” pleaded a Cambodian land mine child survivor removing shrapnel with an old rusty saw after stepping in heavy invisible shit, “or are you against us?”
She‘s been turned out and turned down faster than a housekeeper ironing imported Egyptian threaded 400-count linen. No lye.
The thermostat of her short sweet life seeks more wattage. She faces a severe energy shortage if she doesn’t find food.
She’s one of 26,000 men, women and children maimed or killed every year by land mines from forgotten conflicts. Reports from the killing fields indicate 110 million land mines lie buried in 68 countries.
It costs $3.00 to bury a landmine.
It costs $300–$900 to remove a mine. It will cost $33 billion to remove them. It will take 1,100 years.
Governments spend $200–$300 million a year to detect and remove 10,000 mines. Cambodia, Angola and Afghanistan are the most heavily mined countries in the world.
40% of all land in Cambodia and 90% in Angola go unused because of land mines. One in 236 Cambodians is an amputee.
She hears children crying as doctors struggle to remove metal from her skin. She cannot raise her hands to cover her ears. Perpetual crying penetrates her heart. Tears of blood soak her skin.
The technical mine that took her right leg off that fateful day as she walked along village rice paddies expanded outward at 7,000 meters per second. Ball bearings shredded everything around her heart.
It may have been an American made M16A1, shallow curved with a 60-degree fan shaped pattern. The lethal range was 328 feet. Or maybe a plastic Russian PMN-2 disguised as a toy. She never saw it coming after stepping on the pressure plate.
Fortunately or unfortunately, she didn’t die of shock and blood loss. A stranger stopped the bleeding, checked her pulse and injected her with 200cc of morphine. Strangers in a strange land all carried morphine.
Cut the heavy, deep and real shit, said a shaman.
Fear is a tough sell unless it’s done well, well done, marinated, broiled, stir-fried, over easy, or scrambled.
Fear is ignorance.
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