photos of tuberculosis

Misha Friedman worked with Doctors Without Borders or Medecins Sans Frontieres.

While working in Chechnya in 2008 he began making photographs.

He continued to work with N.G.O.’s to pursue stories, “because journalists can’t be trusted,” he said. “These patients, who do they trust? They trust the people who care for them. So credibility comes from showing up with people they trust.” 

“Most of the people you see here are dead,” Mr. Friedman said last week, looking through the photographs. “My images have not really helped them. Maybe they’ll help people in the future. Maybe they’ll help with fund-raising here and there. But to these particular people, they did not help.

“So that part is harder, being kind of just a photographer.”

You may see his slide show at LENS.

http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/02/08/saving-lives-or-photographing-them/

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An invisible epidemic

Poetry rocks russia

Greetings,

The passing of Mr. Voznesensky creates new opportunity and awareness for poets with courage and voice. Poets speak in the atmosphere of intimidation and menace. 

Here is a NYT piece on Russian poetry.

...Here is Pushkin’s poem “Good for the Poet Who ...,” a bitter satire of writers who would curry favor with rulers, in a translation by Yevgeny Bonver:

Good for the poet who applies
His art in royal chambers’ splendor.
Of tears and laughter crafty vendor
Adding some truth to many lies,
He tickles the sated taste of lords
For more greatness and awards.
And decorates all their feasts,
Receiving clever praise as fees ...
But, by the doors, so tall and stout —
On sides of stables and backyards —
The people, haunted by the guards,
Hark to this poet in a crowd.

Now there’s a declaration of independence.

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Metta.

Andrei Voznesensky 1933-2010

FATE

Fate is above me. Why should I browse?  Sleeping in dosses, an outcast, I rove. Grief is a cellar, that opens in every old house. A ditch is below me and fate is above. What did I want? Well, a life of contentment. What did I get? Just a coffin and wreath... Under the cradle a grave has been latent. Fate is above me, a ditch is beneath. Up in the sky my soul, like a hound, howls, despaired, the trigger to pull it was keen. Fate has come over my family background, and on the earth where fate is my kin. What have I done, apart from the simple poems I've written in passing to date? I've been a lightening conductor for people. Now I have broken my back. Such is fate. + Dear colleagues, I'm so happy: nowadays when all is well  I’m the only one who happens  to be criticized like hell. I’m a black sheep. No objection, for my living does make sense ‘cause I set off the perfection of my flawless author friends.    read more...