http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/hello daily 1.0 2024-01-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/e322e96d-7980-408e-a879-d8084905f37a/just+figure+copy.png Home Sumercé Artisans is a fair trade organization that supports independent artists in Boyacá, Colombia, focusing on the thirteen towns within the province of Sugamuxi. Each item is purchased directly from the source, allowing for immediate impact and meaningful change. Sumercé Artisans works in collaboration with Fundación Montecito where a portion of the proceeds fund environmental and education programs within the communities around Lake Tota. Our artisan partners take pride in what they do. Each handcrafted product represents generations of knowledge and skill and a lifetime of love and commitment by the artisans. Learn more at sumerce.org. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605369782263-6LWH8YLO68ZWT5Y9OGQE/official+cover+huh+test.jpg Home https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1609717051237-NECVUWGCWADM2DCURCRO/132067669_10159312059032018_915070110856257676_o+%281%29.jpg Home Casey French is an adventure photographer based in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. He has been working professionally as a photographer since 2014 while exploring South America. Over his career, Casey’s work has been published through media outlets such as Footprint Travel Guides, CNN International and National Geographic. Since March 2019, Casey has been travelling around the world with the intention of using photography for social good. He has collaborated and volunteered with various humanitarian organizations and nonprofits both locally and abroad. In 2020, he rode his bicycle 3,400 miles with his brother Joey from his hometown to San Francisco, California through fires, droughts, and lonely roads, raising money for Fond du Lac nonprofits affected by the pandemic. In 2023, Casey founded Sumercé Artisans, a fair trade organization that supports artisans in Boyacá, Colombia. He released his first collection of photographs in his book ‘Ephemerality’, a five-year photographic and poetic journey available for free here. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1631050163955-0R65ZQ9D0WPG5CZGZOX7/DSCF2957-4+smaller.jpg Home http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories daily 0.75 2021-10-11 http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/journalist monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670309211-G0VHDPGVSZ92K0EP5KOC/%282%29_MG_2207.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (2/6) “It happened June 23rd last year. I already had my visa and tickets set for the United States. But on this day, I received a phone call shortly after midnight from my younger sister informing me that my oldest sister and her husband had been kidnapped. Nobody knew where they were. They were kidnapped shortly after my sister picked up her husband at the bus station. I believe they were looking for me. Whenever I return to my city to visit family, I use my sister’s car. I have been trailed a couple times in the past and always managed to escape. They must have thought I was the one driving. When they stopped to buy gas at dusk, my niece crossed the street and by the time she returned, they were gone. Their cell phones were turned off. She was terrified and ran back to the station to ask the attendant for help. But nothing could be done. In Nigeria, kidnapping is the new robbery. There are many famous people including church leaders, civil servants, businessmen, and footballers that have been kidnapped. Anyone can be a target for ransom. They released her husband but kept my sister captive. They demanded the equivalent of $50,000 if they ever wanted to see my sister alive again.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670424662-G7LCGK40W845CMIU1BSN/%286%29_MG_2472.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (6/6) “This is what my life has become. After staying with her daughter for 2 weeks, I spent time in hotels, but the conditions were not ideal. When the Solution Center called me, it took me by surprise. I will never forget the warm welcome I received from the most courteous and caring staff. They were so respectful and genuine. They had concern for everyone and I felt at home. I was able to sleep for the first time in weeks. Since I have been here, my life has gone forward. There is nowhere I have been that showed the kind of love and care I’ve experienced here at the Solutions Center. My first few months in the U.S. were characterized by frustration, cultural shocks, and uncertainties. The Solutions Center gave me comfort, peace, food, and empowerment to pursue my aspirations. My short-term goal is to get a job here in Fond du Lac or neighboring counties once the Homeland Security Department approves my application for a permit. I will work and dedicate my spare time to volunteering here at the Solutions Center. My long-term goal is to improve myself by getting a postgraduate degree in Information and Communication Technologies. This certification will empower me to effectively produce and promote my own radio and television show.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670331135-NO6OENXFHFR3R5ZZ682G/%283%29_MG_2200.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (3/6) “Even when my father died, I did not feel the same pain that I felt when my sister was kidnapped. It was the saddest day of my life. I was broken. That week, I could not eat or sleep. I was too scared to even go home. All I could do was fast and pray. The impact of that news almost killed my mother. She suffered a very severe heart attack when she received the call. Hostages were killed on many occasions. Sometimes, they would collect the ransom and still kill the victim. They gathered our phone numbers from her phone and after nearly a week, the kidnappers called my brother-in-law threatening her life if the ransom wasn’t paid. This is the same pattern across the Niger-Delta where oil companies experience kidnappings so frequently. They would pay stupendous ransoms to get their staff back. Many people employed with these companies would reunite with their families after being captured and come right back to work. The money is too good, and these foreign expatriates know that criminality is just part of the job. However, the company my brother-in-law worked with decided to help him with negotiators. There is no way to speak to these militant groups directly and they are often heavily armed and sometimes backed by corrupt government officials. When the consultant finally arrived, he worked with my family and handled the negotiations with these criminals. I had to borrow and even sold some of my possessions to raise money the ransom. But it wasn’t enough.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670357542-VKOWBPLZN89Q0UEE6KVS/%284%29_MG_2268.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (4/6) “We couldn’t pay everything but managed to pay the equivalent of $25,000 for her release. Half of what they wanted. On July 1st, she was released. They told her she was the wrong target, but they never mentioned who exactly they wanted. I had a feeling they wanted me. I’m on television, broadcasting the daily news on the local channels. They see my face every day. It may have been my fault that my sister was kidnapped. Her captors freed her one night on the outskirts of the city. They dropped her off in a secluded area and drove off. A woman came to her aid and paid for a 30-minute cab ride back to our home. I felt stranded and scared. I didn’t go home immediately to see my sister for fear of being recognized. During those nine days, she was held captive in this beautiful house. She refused to eat anything they offered her, and they wouldn’t tell her anything. It was all psychology. They assigned a young boy to watch over her and would teach her gospel songs and apologize for what was happening to her. They wanted her to feel comfortable, and although she was not harmed at all, it later came back to haunt her. She suffered severe psychological trauma and broke down twice since her return. But after a few weeks, I reunited with her. We arranged for my mother and sister to move to a different city for a while. Fortunately, I was already preparing to come to the United States prior. I would have asked for my money back from my plane ticket to pay for the ransom if it could have been refunded. I decided to visit a friend from Nigeria who has been living in Wisconsin for many years now. I didn’t know what my situation was going to be here in Nigeria. That’s when I decided to leave.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670283900-RS0K4773NAFFER19EVEU/%281%29_MG_2351.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (1/6) “In my home country of Nigeria, I pursued a degree in journalism and mass communication after high school. I worked with several local radio and television stations and reached the peak of my career within a very short amount of time. I represented a television station as a statehouse correspondent. I had amazing opportunities interviewing dignitaries including Presidents. My job allowed me to travel to different countries as a reporter. I come from one of the oil-producing states of the Niger-Delta. There are huge oil and gas ­­deposits all over the place yet the entire region is impoverished. Foreign agencies collude with locals militant groups to steal crude oil from Nigeria. They bring oil barges to the coastline and obtain oil illegally. As head of my media department, I wrote a script and made a documentary addressing the issue. There are many militant groups that are well-armed and rival amongst themselves over control of territories and illicit trade. I have had a series of brushes with security and they can be very brutal to reporters and journalists. I interviewed those involved in the illegal trade and many people saw the interview when it aired. That was when my troubles began. One of the groups targeted me. I received several threats back in 2013 and by 2014, I didn’t take them lightly anymore. I was scared and left my position to live in South Africa. This allowed me to be off their radar, but after a few years, I returned home to follow up on an invitation I had received from a U.S. Christian Radio, who heard about me on a radio station in South Africa.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670394042-CYFHLR57MZF1MHDVNLUV/%285%29_MG_2430.jpg Short Stories - The Journalist (5/6) “The woman I knew back in Nigeria contacted me before I left for the States. I already had my invitation, but I agreed to visit her first before I head to Louisiana to work with the radio station. I arrived at the O’Hare airport in Chicago and the woman and her daughter picked me up. She brought me straight to Wisconsin in the dead of winter. Long story short, I was held against my will. It was fine initially, but as time passed, it became apparent her intentions. She wanted me to agree to her terms of marriage. She even paid for an immigration lawyer to finalize everything. By February, she would brag to people that I was her husband, showing me off to her friends and family. She became angry when I told her I wanted to leave and intentionally let my return ticket to Nigeria expire. When she saw that I wasn’t forthcoming, she turned her attention to another man from New York. By now, she wanted nothing to do with me. She drove me straight to the police station and ordered me to sit in the lobby. She caused a scene, but I was unaware of what was happening. As we got back in the car, she didn’t speak a word to me. A few police cars followed behind us. I discovered that she filed a complaint that I pushed her. The police officers entered her home and asked for my story. I could tell they didn’t believe her, but since I was not on the lease, I had to leave. Before the police took me away, the woman’s daughter arrived. She was shocked by what her mother had done and told police that I would be staying with her.” http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/doctor monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671062861-IRBP1I0NBQY8Q75TMCVO/%285%29_MG_5615.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (5/8) "The single most, saddest moment in my life happened that summer of 2008. We had a family meeting telling my daughters and son that I was moving out. Mom and Dad were separating. My two youngest girls took it the hardest – Amy was 9 and Sophie was 6. Amy begged me, ‘Daddy, please don't go...don't leave us! I love you, Daddy. I need you’. Sophie ran into the bedroom and laid on the floor, crying, sobbing. I held her face in my hands and said, ‘Everything's going to be okay’. Oh, the look in her eyes. Such grief and pleading in her tender eyes. She reached up and held my face in her hands. She said, ‘I love you, Daddy, why do you have to go?’. I held her tightly in my arms and I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Nothing could ever change that. Then I stood up and walked away. I left her crying there by herself. I had become a worse man than my father ever was." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671173297-UZ4X7BGG85PC5IUHKQDR/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - The Doctor (8/8) "I did not expect all of this to happen in my life. I believed that I was a “special case” – the exception, that I was forever destined to live a life of failure and isolation. At one time, I believed that I was smarter than everyone else. That I was cleverer than most people and could cheat the consequences, but that started falling apart for me. My whole life, I said, “I could do anything, get anything I wanted if I just set my mind to it”. And I did. But I was on a collision course. My self-will tore a hole in my life, like a plane at 30,000 feet. Today I do everything I can to give back. My alcohol addiction has been removed. It does not exist for me anymore. And that, to me is a true miracle. The Solutions Center has helped me get back on my feet. When my friend who was housing me suddenly passed away, I couldn't afford to stay where we were living. Two years sober now, I'm grateful to have a chance to rebuild my life. Living at the shelter has given me the stability I needed to be able to think ahead, find work, and be on my own. The positivity I've experienced at the center has brought back a ray of hope for me, something I haven't felt in a while." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670920366-1YKPOZXE0KYNCQUV7Z84/%281%29_MG_5599.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (1/8) “My father was an accomplished alcoholic, but anger ruled in our home life. My mother was an emotionally unstable and angry woman. I remember my mom, in one of her outbursts, shouting at me that she wished that she never had me because I made her have 'nervous breakdowns'. I can forgive her today, but then at 5 years old, I didn't understand. It hurt, and I felt bad that I had somehow made my mom’s life worse. I had no idea how to deal with that as a kid. It made me want to get away from there, anywhere, but I had nowhere to go. School was my only escape. The happiest time in my life, even to this day, was my adventures in the gifted student program at the Art Institute of Chicago. I was 12 years old and I finally felt accepted. Class started at 1:00, but I lied and told my teachers it started at 11:00. I jumped on the “L” train every Tuesday and explored the wonders of downtown Chicago. I felt independent and free! Like a young Ferris Bueller, I went to the penthouses of skyscrapers, extravagant office buildings, art galleries, museums, expensive restaurants, and the vast Chicago Public Library. It’s amazing what a 12-year-old can get away with, with a little confidence. It was like an oasis in a long stretch of barren desert. I felt like I could finally be myself." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671137738-951DYCF2QRKHI95W267C/%287%29_MG_5801.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (7/8) "So, I went to the Thursday night meeting at the Blandine house. They welcomed me with open arms. My prejudices about the kind of people who went to AA meetings were completely wrong – that they were burnouts, bums, and losers. I was the loser! These people had a genuineness and humor I had never seen before. Their lives had meaning and purpose. I wanted whatever they had. I walked outside after the meeting and had a smoke and out of nowhere, two guys pulled me aside and said "You have to go to detox - now. If you don't go right now, you'll never do it". I'll never forget how they looked at me. So earnestly, like they were pleading with a dying man. So, I went. That morning, I walked out of the hospital into the bright sunshine. I didn't tell anyone what I was going to do next. I knew I had a bottle of vodka still in my car, over three-fourths full. I made a beeline for the car, and before I could have a chance to think about it, I grabbed that bottle, took off the cap, and poured it all out on the stones. Right there in the hospital parking lot with people watching a madman. And I said, "Done." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549670976411-8TSSBZ5LI1N9WXCCSQ7A/%282%29_MG_5607.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (2/8) "I met a girl and we got married. At this point in my life, I was chasing after anything to make me feel accepted, wanted, loved. Being married was going to clear the fog. I could see myself loving and being loved in a lifetime relationship. But the mood swings and emotional problems and arguments didn’t take long to start. My own selfishness and confusion drove me deeper and away. We decided to start a family – another fix. As a father myself, I could find a real purpose in life. One more distraction from having to deal with who I was inside. And it worked – for a while. I was a great dad. I was kind, patient, and fun. I taught my kids respect and love for others and how to make their own moral choices. For 13 years of their childhood, I kept my shit together. I changed diapers, taught Sunday school, went on family camping trips, bedtime stories – a strong, loving father. Having 4 kids and raising them was wonderful. And it took the focus off the marriage and my shortcomings. But through my own delusions and avoidance of understanding who I was, my inner world was unraveling." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671039005-QFYL8ZDMOYY9LJQT357B/%284%29_MG_5632.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (4/8) "Even though I was married, I began receiving attention from attractive women. My patients would shamelessly come on to me. Open flirtation, whispers in my ear, phone numbers in my pocket. It was a huge ego boost, but I resisted. One day, a few of my staff at work had invited me to play on their team in a volleyball league. A few beers after games to celebrate, just harmless good times with friends. Up until then in my life, I rarely drank. Watching my dad slowly kill himself with alcohol, I swore I would never be like him. Once again, I had found a new escape. I never saw it coming, though I should have. A few beers turned into pitchers. Pitchers needed shots. And more and more shots. I loved the way it made me feel – I couldn't get enough. I started getting involved out on the weekends, drinking with all my new friends. My marriage was already dead on arrival. Things got to the point that I had to move out because I couldn't keep my two worlds separated any longer. Saying it now, it was a very selfish life I was leading. But at the time, when you find something that makes you feel better than anything your entire life, a perfect escape, you'll do anything to get it and sacrifice anything to get it." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671014342-GDTKAODQNO7DT8SBZ5GC/%283%29_MG_5622.jpg Short Stories - The Doctor (3/8) "In 1997, I started back to school to earn my doctorate. After graduation, I started a medical practice. Within the first year, I doubled the business for my partner and I and launched my own office. Here I found success. My medical practice was flourishing. My patients loved me, the money was flowing in, I felt happy. I kept myself busy all the time, ignoring the hollowness inside. If you keep yourself busy enough, long enough, you don't have to face who you really are. You can ignore your character defects for a long, long time. You can even convince yourself that they are not really defects, it's just "who you are". But like a virus in the body, they never go away. They just lay dormant. I learned this the hard way beginning innocently in the spring of 2002. Our marriage had lost its depth over the years and we were drifting apart. We realized we weren't compatible with each other anymore. We decided to see a counselor, but instead of helping, it made things worse: our differences became glaringly obvious. With this new-found unrest, something inside me snapped." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671104617-UPMBJC99157XSKTMIFUN/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - The Doctor (6/8) "That was 9 years ago. In 2012, I went on a trip to Europe to see my oldest daughter, bringing along one of my girlfriends. It was a drunken disaster. Coming home after living homeless in Prague, the teetering remnants of my life came crashing down. I lost my practice. I was being evicted. I guzzled straight vodka every time I thought about all the heartache I had caused to my children. Every day, I wanted to die. It was a slow suicide. My dog was my only companion, watching me drink over a liter of vodka every day. One day, my car broke down on Main Street. I abandoned it at Walgreens and started walking. I saw an older man on a red scooter pull up to the curb in front of me. He got off the scooter, and I saw that he had only one leg. We struck up a conversation and he asked me "Have you been drinking?" And I said, "Hell yeah, I've been drinking. My car broke down and I'm pissed off!" He said "I used to drink too. And I lost everything". Then he asked me "Do you have any kids?". I don't know why he asked me that, but I said 'yes'. "Well, when's the last time you talked to them". I hung my head down. It had been a long time. Then he looked me square in the eye and said, "You're a loser" with a smile. A total stranger on the sidewalk just called me a loser. What could I say? He was right. I was a loser. He said ‘Man, life is precious. You matter to your kids. They need their dad in their lives.’ God, that really hit me. He gave me a meeting list and invited me to an AA meeting. He said 'Just give it a try. If you don't like it you don’t have to stay." http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/advocate monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671344891-WYED69L5MLA2MD349HE0/%281%29_MG_5865.jpg Short Stories - The Advocate (1/3) “Back in 2017, I was having multiple anaphylactic reactions at my previous job. After my employer refused to make accommodations for my food allergy, I was hired at the Solutions Center. My food allergy is the reason I have medical bills like crazy. It was difficult not being able to find work for so long. I’ve realized that nothing is ever guaranteed. I was making lots of money at my last job, but I was unhappy there. As a Crisis Advocate, I enjoy spending time with the clients. They always seem to make me laugh, even when I am blue. And it’s nice to be able to laugh and feel like you are also helping them in return. I think the biggest misconception about homeless people is that they are lazy. So many people fall through the cracks or don’t know the available resources to help keep afloat. Many of us are one paycheck away from being homeless. If I wasn’t caretaking my aunt’s home during this time, I would’ve been homeless myself.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671451028-NQLT9HNTTY7BUZXSIJVO/%282%29_MG_5865.jpg Short Stories - The Advocate (2/3) “I come from a long line of people that do good for others - being advocates. My great grandparents during the Great Depression would always offer food to the homeless, even when they didn’t have a lot themselves. They never turned anyone away and always had something to share. My grandfather was a physical education teacher and basketball coach in the time of segregation. There was one black player on their team. When the bus stopped at a diner to get some food after a traveling game, the staff told him that they wouldn’t serve “his type” there. My grandfather told the staff and the team that if they wouldn’t serve everyone, they weren’t spending any money there and packed up the bus and rolled on. Over the years, my grandparents took several people into their homes. Mostly teenagers. These kids were in abusive situations at home and needed to leave but had nowhere to go. In many of these cases, parents didn’t care where their children were, but my grandparents would serve as mediators to try to work through the issues between parent and child. My mom has done a fair amount of the same as well. She gave my brother’s friend refuge when he was being abused at his parent’s home. She took in my first boyfriend every weekend to let him leave the abusive and toxic situation he was living in. My mom also gave my friend refuge when she was homeless. As for me, working with the homeless has made me even more grateful for all the little things in life.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671481962-2UST63PQ7TPAZWE69CQ7/%283%29+_MG_5839.jpg Short Stories - The Advocate (3/3) “Throughout my life, I have been doing what I can for others. When I used to sing at an open mic in Oshkosh, I realized how many homeless were around and often had meaningful conversations with the few who would come into the coffee shop. At Christmastime, I used to make up paper bags with some non-perishable food items, instant food and drink packets, some plastic utensils, clothing like socks, toiletry items and a homemade Christmas card with an inspirational message in it. I would leave several of these bags at the coffee shop and when they’d come in for a cup of coffee, the staff would give them one of the anonymous bags. I heard from the staff that very often tears were shed when they realized what it was. More recently, I started a Facebook page called Betsy’s Backpacks. I got a lot of donations from the community. I would put together backpacks with basic needs items and include information about the Solutions Center, job resource center, public library help list, etc. When I saw someone that I thought was in need or that I knew was homeless, I would give them a backpack. I like the feeling of making a difference in someone’s life. Helping someone better themselves and giving them the tools they need to succeed is, I believe, my life’s calling.” http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/silversmith monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671650534-7V225THVL38J04LQTM8V/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - The Silversmith (2/5) “I’m a jeweler and silversmith. I grew up in the Rocky Mountains of Montana just north of Yellowstone Park. I learned everything from my father. He was a minister and I have always valued his wisdom. On weekends, we would hike up the mountain and collect Madison Blue agates. He had all the equipment and I still have over a thousand pounds of the gems in storage. It was our hobby, but it gradually became a business and was going very well. We would attend juried shows through a committee and once we were juried in, we had every weekend booked in the summer. People would ask us to come back. We’d go to indoor shows during the winter months. Two years ago, my dad had a stroke and we couldn’t do the shows anymore. How was I supposed to teach someone what took a lifetime to learn? I lost my business partner, but fortunately, he is still alive today.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671815677-5CZ19S8IH01WKC9VCJUA/%284%29_MG_0357.jpg Short Stories - The Silversmith (4/5) “I look at it this way: I had the American Dream. I had a $300,000 house on the lake, a cottage up north, and all the toys you can imagine. But when our cottage burned down, we didn’t have anything. We lost our dog. We barely got out ourselves. It is kind of amazing to think everything you accumulated over the years - gone. We built a new home but couldn’t keep up with the mortgage. Shortly after I came up here to the Solutions Center, my wife forged my signature and closed out our joint checking account, starting another in her name. Sounds like a country western song, doesn’t it? ‘My wife left me, my dogs left me, lost my house’. But you know, I am freer now than when I had all that stuff.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671557111-HJEIH4RRF9YFFQXGVS1P/%281%29_MG_0346.jpg Short Stories - The Silversmith (1/5) “After I lost my job during the recession of the late 70’s, my mother suggested I take a job at the hospital. I became an x-ray technician and could go anywhere and get a job. Hell, I was recruited months before I even finished clinicals. I worked third shift in an emergency room because blood and guts don’t bother me. Everyone in our department was doing crystal, even the doctors. I was on call 24/7 and it eventually became too much. X-ray technicians all know each other so I was referred to a company in New York. I drove everything from Texas and it was quite a contrast. I used the company vehicle to run routes: one day in the Bronx, another in Brooklyn, Manhattan, Long Island, Queens, everywhere. During this time, I did a lot of drugs and became a crack addict. The dealer would see my van and wait for me outside my home. I’d always stop and pay him whatever he asked for. That was crazy shit. I was so into it, every single night. It was when my dad had his first heart attack when I dropped everything and moved back home to Milwaukee. The doctors didn’t know if he was going to make it.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671858944-I56O6PVAJO87IMOBWXOZ/%285%29_MG_0400.jpg Short Stories - The Silversmith (5/5) “If it weren’t for you guys, I’d be fucked. They say you have to hit bottom and before now, I never hit bottom. I went to treatment centers in Florida for months, but they were like country clubs. I didn’t take it seriously. I always had a home and a job to come back to. And I am good at starting over. I have done it so many times before. But I had to lose everything. If it weren’t for this place, I don’t know where I’d have gone. I mean, where would we be without this place? When I came here, I wasn’t eating and was in a constant haze. I went to detox immediately. Who knows? The Solution Center may have saved my life. Out of all the homeless people in Fond du Lac, you took me in and gave me this opportunity to land on my feet. I just hope to give my spot to someone else who was like me when I came here. Now, I can see clearly and hold my head up high. I am very grateful to the Solution Center for all their help and support." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671729977-JSX0M9T2SYFW38LQXPY1/%283%29_MG_0384.jpg Short Stories - The Silversmith (3/5) “It was a problem back then, but I’ve always got by, drinking. I was recruited by an old colleague in Milwaukee working in their emergency room. He knew I did good work. I worked for him for 13 years and I loved that job. No office, no clock. Just had to call in at 8:00 every morning. Sometimes I would only have one or two x-rays a day. When he wanted to retire, he sold his business to Accurate X-ray, a huge corporation with a reputation for buying out small businesses. They were trying to steal our accounts. I couldn’t blame him for selling, but I told him there is no fucking way I’m working for them. After he retired, I basically floundered. My father had a stroke shortly after and I had to teach him how to walk in physical therapy for 3 months. I lost my mother on Christmas and I was worried I would lose both in the same year. During this time, I was drinking a quart of vodka a day. This is how I dealt with everything. I was killing it in the insurance business prior but ended up losing my job because of it. All I did was lay on the couch and drink. I looked like shit. Life was one big party before it became a problem. I started drinking when I was 14 and after 40 some years, it finally caught up to me.” http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/leader monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671987343-CZVJOPQAC95H2D7WDPDE/%282%29_MG_8504.jpg Short Stories - The Leader (2/5) “I was hit in the head back in 2016 and had multiple surgeries - detached retina, cataracts, and oil transplants to hold the retina in place. Basically, I was at a 20/200 when I first started my surgeries, and now I’m at a 20/400 which means that, according to the State, I’m deemed legally blind. There are not as many visually impaired people in Fond du Lac, but they are out there. People just don’t realize it. I want to help the community by advocating for talking stop and go lights. I just completed Leader Dogs for the Blind and that was a 360-hour commitment. It’s a mobility training program to learn how to use the cane, cross intersections properly, how to stop traffic while crossing the intersection, and blind service dog training. Next month, I get to practice in my own community and record what I’ve learned and demonstrate problem-solving skills. If I’m accepted, I will hopefully be matched with a service dog. I can participate in a program throughout the U.S. that helps blind people enroll in school for dog training. My goal is to be able to train leader dogs for blind people or become a mobility instructor which is a 3-year intern program through Leader Dog.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672178679-F4P8A3O635LIQ61BRPOV/%285%29_MG_8536.jpg Short Stories - The Leader (5/5) “Everyone has challenges. There are challenges every single day. If you put that challenge in front of you and keep an open mind, that challenge can be a success and can be conquered. I’m always thinking positive and try not to be negative. Yes, it’s depressing that I can’t go out and drive a vehicle. It’s depressing I can’t work for the rest of my life, but there are things that I have achieved like getting my own apartment, being able to go to the grocery store and walk down the aisle without getting hurt. Moments like these are successes. And I’m one of those examples because I learned that from the Solutions Center. My cousin moved into the same apartment building about a month after I did. Family has always been really big in my life. Having her in the same building has not only brought us closer but gave me the tools I didn’t have. Things I couldn’t do before like getting to the grocery store or reading the tags on the shelf is easier now. We all try to stick together, and Solutions Center taught me how helped me establish my support network together. I appreciate everything that they’ve done for me here and encourage the community to find out more about what the center can do for people. They are here to help people and guide you in the right direction.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549671953832-5KGTNOJTBV6SLZ6CYW88/%281%29_MG_8537.jpg Short Stories - The Leader (1/5) “I spent 120 days here. I was released from the Department of Corrections for a small child support case in October 2017. Many people getting out of jail often don’t have a place to go when they get out. My agent wanted to put me in a transitional living facility, but I told her if she would give me an opportunity to find a place, I would find one. The Solutions Center guided me and gave me the resources for counseling, Rent Smart, and NAMI. The group therapies in shelter really stuck with me. I came in with an open mind and listened to the staff here. With their guidance, I was able to succeed and get into my own housing. Getting my first apartment in 10 years and paying my rent every single month on time is what I’m most proud of. I’ve been put down most of my life, told that I am a failure and that not going to amount to anything in life. I want to show others I am a success. I refuse to be another statistic.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672047841-GBRJGMYX5Y9TKGGO1N37/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - The Leader (3/5) “When I first enrolled in Leader Dogs for the Blind, I just took a deep breath and told myself “I’m here, now it’s time to learn”. The staff here helped me fill out applications and doing little odds and ends to get me to that point. I had a few surgeries during the program and had to adapt the way I live by feeling and touch. It’s a matter of trusting in others and trusting in the tools that I’ve got. I believe in this cane. Now I can walk head back, shoulders back, head high, and I look straight ahead. I don’t look at the ground anymore. I let the cane feel my way. I ran over a penny last night with my cane at Kwik Trip, and I knew that it was a penny. I let my ears help guide me through the intersection. I did exactly what my instructor told me. Get to the intersection, let it run a full cycle, and just close your eyes and listen. When I cross, I put one hand out to stop any traffic and I get across. I had one little kid come up to me the other night and I heard him ask my girlfriend “Is he blind”? She said “Yes, he’s blind. He’s practicing and he’s doing a great job”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672136802-CT5QV3CFAI6XQNGIDE41/%284%29_MG_8509.jpg Short Stories - The Leader (4/5) “Rent Smart provided one-on-one training with me because I can’t read the small print. After I graduated from the program, it was a sense of accomplishment. This was something I achieved. It wasn’t really part of my rules and regulations, but it was required here at the Solutions Center. The case manager guided me and believed in me. I was in this office every Tuesday and Wednesday, bringing my homework down and walking me through it. Everybody should take that program. It’s a great program because it goes over your rights as a renter, helps you find an apartment, and find out different things about the landlord. It got me into a stable living environment. People are starting to realize that yes, he will pay his rent on time, he’s not a problem and he’s becoming the person that he wants to become. It’s all about setting goals. If you set a goal high enough and you achieve it, it shows others that if you work hard you can achieve your goals.” http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/dreamer monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672334543-YBBI1KHHTUJV0OE93DXE/%282%29_MG_6309.jpg Short Stories - The Dreamer (2/3) "Many people think we're lazy. That most of us are all drunkards. That it’s older people or younger people who are naive and stupid and don’t know how to manage their money. Homelessness isn’t just about one demographic; it’s all demographics. There are a million and one ways to become homeless. It could be something you did, it could be something somebody else did that tarnished your name so now you can’t get into housing or other things. I am afraid that it'll take too long to get out of this rut. I’m working as a dishwasher part-time which most people don’t really want to be in that situation forever. I don’t have a place of my own. It’s still something I’ve got to figure out. I’m going to be 27 soon and to not be where I want to be is frustrating. Personally, I take each day as it comes and just deal with the troubles of that day. I used to try to plan for the future, but 'even the best-laid plans go awry' as they say." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672252465-Z0BZRL8WG4OLF4F39IKS/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - The Dreamer (1/3) "In the last two years, a lot of stuff has happened. The main thing - the worst thing - is the whole sex ring over on Ruggles. It’s been in the paper for a couple months now about the 'wolf clan'. The neighbors and the lady we were staying with had a daughter. Her daughter was being sexually abused. The mother didn’t do anything about it or was actively endorsing it. The neighbor along with his son were also sexually abusing the daughter. It was a big dominant-submissive sex ring type deal. We didn’t see it. It’s something we should’ve noticed given the fact that I’ve been in that situation before - getting sexually abused at a young age by my father. If I knew what I know now, I would’ve gotten Social Services involved sooner. But we just believed the mother when she said that the daughter was lying. Last August or September is when they got arrested, and my fiancé and I had nowhere to go." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672457356-SJ01OC5KYO1SW9S7X653/%283%29_MG_6314.jpg Short Stories - The Dreamer (3/3) "If it wasn’t for shelters like this, where would people be? As soon as the Solutions Center called me, I knew that if I didn’t snap up the opportunity right away, I probably wouldn’t get another chance because of the waiting list and limited space. I was at the point where I couldn’t deal with all the stuff I was dealing with anymore. At least here we have a roof over our heads. If we don’t buy any food, there’s usually enough food around to be made. I think people would find this place a little more austere and hostile if the staff wasn’t as in tune with what people needed. Because if you’re going to help people, you need to be able to listen to the people you’re helping and almost be one of them. The Solutions Center staff are understanding, they are actually willing to sit down and chat with you and it doesn’t even have to be about anything in particular. I normally keep to myself and have never had much of a social life. You never know what a person has been through or what they’re capable of without getting into their head." http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/recovery monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672617654-3UVN73R1UTZML3I7X09Z/%281%29_MG_5564.jpg Short Stories - The Recovery (1/5) "I used to have nightmares as a kid. We had a house where the stairway went up and turned down a hallway. You could look from the balcony at the top of the stairs to the bottom. When I was 4 or 5, I had this reoccurring nightmare of waking up and looking over the railing. At the bottom of the stairs, there were monsters waiting for me. I'd fall over and wake up from each nightmare before I reached the bottom. It didn't come to me until a lot later in life that the monster was my father because he always slept on the couch down there. In the meantime, my mother got me a stuffed soldier and the nightmares stopped shortly after that. Maybe she recognized who the monster was. It's hard to say. It was very miserable living with that man." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672791691-CR2Z7YOP44US31VTY7U1/%284%29_MG_5591.jpg Short Stories - The Recovery (4/5) "Not that I fear relapsing, but it's always there. Maybe it should always be something that I am afraid of. It keeps me aware and alert of where I am in recovery. What I do fear is losing the love and respect of my daughters. Every time I drink, I get lower and lower and lower. I was tired of disappointing people, tired of disappointing myself. One of these times, I'm just going to die. Especially if I drink again. The last time I relapsed was the first time I have ever attempted suicide. So, I don't know. I don't know if I have another 'drunk' in me, to tell you the truth. Right now, I feel good about my recovery, but I've felt that way before. It's not a new feeling for me." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672664119-0602J5COPAW8GNDAPIEL/%282%29_MG_5538.jpg Short Stories - The Recovery (2/5) "For as long as I could remember, my father was an abusive drunk. I knew I never wanted to be like my father. And I succeeded in that respect. I never was violent or abusive to my family. That compassion in me for those people who have been being hurt was instilled in me as a young child. I've always wanted to help, but alcohol was my liquid courage. That’s exactly what it was in the beginning. It made me drop my inhibitions and I could converse with people. I was a functioning alcoholic. My daughter even said, 'I never knew you were drunk', but that’s because I was drunk all the time." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672834835-TZ29RJSVY3XUPB2HA5RD/%285%29_MG_5524.jpg Short Stories - The Recovery (5/5) "Happiness is not getting what you want but wanting what you have." I read it in a book somewhere, but I've always held onto it. We forget to be grateful for what we have. I have the love of my daughters and grandchildren. I have a place to stay for now. I think the Solution Center holds me accountable and has allowed me to clear my head. Every relapse takes more time for me to recover to normalcy. Having shelter and something to eat is something I'm grateful for. The staff is helping me find housing after my stay here. There are rules if I'm going to stay here that require me to stay sober. I won't come home drunk and always make curfew. And I appreciate the little bit of a social life I have with the guys." https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672749684-958F92LUZCKWAIPXE5LO/%283%29_MG_5582.jpg Short Stories - The Recovery (3/5) "My drinking was the cause of my divorce. We worked in the same school district, she as a school teacher and I a janitor. They put me on nights which was a big mistake because by then, I was already an alcoholic. I was drinking on the job and no one ever came to check on me. I ended up breaking my ankle at work one night and had to go to the hospital. I was blowing a 0.3 which is low compared to my other times. It was rather embarrassing for her even if she didn’t admit it. I’m still very much in love with her, but that was her last straw with me and I can't blame her. I wouldn’t want to live with a drunk either. When I relapse, I don’t want to face people. After so many times, I don't know what to say. I can't say that I'm doing great and that I'll do better. It just isn’t going to work for an alcoholic. I cannot promise you I won’t drink again. But every relapse distances me further from my daughters." http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/photographer monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1549672971526-PHTMG82JFQNITG80Y45S/_MG_1271-3+smaller.jpg Short Stories - The Photographer “My main motivation in life has always been to help those around me. I'm always looking for a new challenge to put things in perspective. When I applied for the Crisis Advocate position, I had no idea what to expect. I did not know anything about the Solutions Center or what it offered for the Fond du Lac community. This position was something out of my comfort zone. Everything in my life has been attainable due in part to my own privilege and upbringing. But not everyone is dealt a good hand in life. It wasn’t long before I would hear stories. Stories of addiction, trauma, and hardship. I was exposed to the reality of how the world truly is through a different lens. As a photographer, I proposed this social media project based on the popular blog Humans of New York. I wanted to share these stories with my community to bring people together and shed light on the issues and misconceptions of homelessness. Each individual highlighted in this project volunteered to share their story with you. They could be one of your coworkers, your friends, your family. We live in a world where it is easy to ignore the problems until it hits close to home. But this is our reality and I hope these stories spark a conversation. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/14/the-shoe-tree monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605362157124-BGGI15S7RD4NBPLV54V3/DSCF9971+-+smaller.jpg Short Stories - The Shoe Tree Middlegate, Nevada September 1, 2020 Thousands of soles hang with taunt laces, strung from the branches of a lone cottonwood tree. Only the bin of a cobbler would have so many discarded pairs in one place. They dangle in an imaginary wind, twirling melodically in a dance of phantom limbs. I did not want to change my shoes for another, but I scoured the piles of abandoned pairs anyways. I thought of their collective journeys - the many places and pavements each sole must have explored to be so misshapen and tattered. Like ornaments to a Christmas tree, the generations of footwear made me wish I was ready to give up mine. The closest town has a population sign crossed out in red paint and corrected to keep an accurate census. Sixteen living residents are hardly enough souls to nurture such a tree. I stood under its branches, listening to their shared heartbeat. They asked me to dance with them, and although I followed their lead, I was not rehearsed in their polished choreography. Laces weaved and parted until the sun set under the blue ridge mountains. And I said goodbye to the shoe tree, continuing the path I tread. What an odd fruit to bear, I thought. The shoe tree was not meant to be culled from its branches but rather, to be left threadbare and remembered. When my journey ends, I too will be barefoot. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/14/the-painter monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605362785966-SD9A3GSDRZNX21A19O32/IMG_20191119_112448%2Bedit.jpg Short Stories - The Painter Mechelen, Belgium November 17, 2019 She rests on the floor of her living room, a box of dusty photographs nestled on her lap. The television sheds the only light in the empty house. Romantic films play without sound - only the dull static from the display. She pressed the remote with the paintbrush she kept tucked behind her ear. Pause. The woman smiled at her ability to freeze time. If only it were that easy, she thought. For now, this scene was her canvas. Pouring over the photographs, she lifted one into the screen light, using the bristles to gently wipe dust from the negatives. She only desired the subjects from each portrait. The one she chose that night was a young couple sitting on the beach. Her glasses fell from the bridge of her nose, and as if innate, the brush pushed back. This will do, she thought. The artist found her easel and began to paint. With every few brush strokes, she swiped her bangs away from her forehead and bit the end of her brush to glance back at the television. She contemplated her palate. An infinite combination of hues and she only blended her colors in monochromatic tones. As an artist, she never tires of her colors. But rather, color seems to tire her. In the spare bedroom, the completed pieces stack against a bare wall. Her paintings were not meant to be shared. Always the same couple painted in the foreground of endearing film scenes that never truly transpired. But within each painting, a progression of vibrancy seeps through subtly over the years - as if each one had its own place to grieve. For the woman, no arrangement of colors will ever truly revive the palette she once had. She paints infinity from the finite, searching for the balance between widow and artist. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/15/magical-realism monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605457181219-R2GK6E6UMOEET308DT3G/_DSC9347-3+smaller.jpg Short Stories - Magical Realism Boyacá, Colombia April 21, 2017 A light rain smothered the kindled warmth found in every wooden façade. The clay tiles that weave serrated rooftops bled in dull streaks. Birds abandoned their post as if the fog tugged the power lines. Potted flowers added a much-needed color in the grey mist. I could smell the fragrance of roses drip onto the dark cobblestones and down the centuries old path. Their sodden branches reached between the barred pillars like an outstretched hand, bearing the weight of the persistent storm. In the distance, I shared the lonely road with a silhouetted woman - featureless and indistinguishable. It seemed we were the only souls that roamed this ghost town. I was cloaked in a local disguise: a woolen poncho called ‘ruana’ to shield me from the frigid nature of the Andes. For once, I felt completely invisible. I shadowed her, preparing my camera underneath it. She had an ominous aura in her that I wanted to capture. The town let out a sigh. Faint church bells from the basilica towers rang out, spreading somber vibrations throughout the town. But I felt a different pulse, when all at once, the old woman turned slightly toward me with a cursory glance. She was aware of my lingering presence, but there was a vacancy in her eyes. A myriad of emotions flushed over me: terror, curiosity, bewilderment. I could not move. I did not wish to flee. In the instant apprehensive and inordinate calm, I questioned my own mortality. Time paused. I felt transparent and ageless. Only my eyes had any function as my body pinned where I stood. Rainwater flooded my boots with haste, a drainage carved from the burden of domesticated hooves. I watched the rose petals in the windowsill give in as the bitter rain leadened. There was an eerie attraction that stole the living as fallen flowers gathered in the pools beside her. She continued slowly down the path without hesitation and embraced the fog. When I could finally feel the dampness cling to my bones, I walked to where the woman evaporated from my view. I tried to retrace her steps, but she was gone. The crimson petals, once vibrant and full, drowned in a graveyard of pale and lifeless transparency beneath my feet. I know nothing of death, perhaps even less so of life. To this day, I am incapable of articulating what truly happened. But there is a phantom that dwells in this unhallowed place. Maybe for a moment, it was I who disturbed the living. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/22/nobody-wants-to-hear-songs-anymore monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606093927752-1II89DCPCA3ZGFYUFRPT/DSCF5650.jpg Short Stories - Nobody Wants to Hear Songs Anymore Bratislava, Slovakia October 2019 Nobody wants to hear songs anymore. Certainly not the silhouettes emerging out from the tunnel’s depths. Despite an audience of one, the violinist is resilient and continues to play for dismissive ears. I throw a few coins into his case and study his bow swaying back and forth between the light and dark. His shadowplay is a flickering flame battling the misery of a cold, windy night. At times, his eyes would meet mine and he would crack a weak smile. He plays with such furious passion as if I am the wind that wishes to silence him. And by the end of his song, nobody applauds. Nobody changes pace. He turns to me and bows in my direction, placing his beloved instrument in its case. Was that his only song? Surely he has more to share. Before I could say a word, the man had already extinguished down the dark tunnel. The violinist played his tune for the night because I had no more music left in me. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/22/be-kind-please-rewind monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606095002973-7WBKZW4QFS4O460H3I0J/34670843_10156666096777018_1325468113461837824_o.jpg Short Stories - Be Kind, Please Rewind Back in the Peace Corps, the children used to call you rye-rye. They hid behind wooden chairs to avoid your camcorder, smiling through the banisters as you introduced each of their names to an invisible audience. In the attic of old, forgotten things, I found the VHS tape of your time in the Dominican Republic. It had no labels or markings - only dust from decades of neglect. When I pressed play on the machine, the tape was already halfway through - as if the viewer never finished it. I wanted to erase the distance for you. After all, I too have a special place that I long to be. When I told you about my discovery, I persuaded you to go back. Be kind, please rewind, Ryan - I joked. The village defined who you are now. A man with the resources and means to do so, should. You agreed. But as time passed, there was never an attempt to return. After three long years, I reserved a flight back to my special place in Colombia. As the time grew near, I had become troubled. Everything I wished to reclaim could easily be replaced. Maybe the places I adored will fade in fondness. Maybe my friends will become mere acquaintances. In my mind, I suspended the memories in permanence. Now I fear placidity would take its place. It was then that I understood. Pain lies more heavily in the fondness of memories than the sadness of loss. But it does not matter - your absence gave you both. By now, those children have children of their own. For you to return, your given name might be spoken in full. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/22/i-remember-when-i-was-a-window monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606095550935-L0NKXNQK6P0EO068LVWI/95354087_2478254638940733_7352478063604531200_o.jpg Short Stories - I remember when I was a window I remember when I was a window. The Glass Bank curves like a blade with a grand staircase for a hilt. Follow the marble bannister and it will lead to me - a window. I am set higher than the minarets standing like wickless candles along the riverbanks. Every night, their spent oil burns a crimson dusk over the city of Mostar. I remember when I was a window. I am the first to be destroyed. All the rest of my brothers would soon be broken and left in disarray. The bank became an embattled fortress that divided us. My sill and trim erodes from sniper abrasion. One by one, their targets fall like defoliated leaves; carried away in ruby-stained stretchers. Everyone knows my sight as the "sniper alley”. If you can see the tower, I can see you. I remember when I was a window. The tides of war changed, and I am no longer useful. If anything, I am a vulnerability. Brick and mortar tightly stitch my wounds, until I am blind. Had I known, I would have pleaded for death. But I wish to see the sky one more time. Before the last brick, the wickless minarets lit in sudden combustion - the fragrance of death. Ash and smoke shrouded over Mostar, until everything was black. I remain in darkness, but the cacophony of war reminds me that this horror is embedded in my scars forever. I remember when I was a window. I live out my nightmare in a concrete graveyard. I feel no warmth from the sun that shines through this hollow corpse. But occasionally I hear voices. Foreign ones with cautious footsteps. I listen to their echoes throughout the chambers of the old bank. The staircase has no bannister to brace anymore, but they steady something on empty window sills. No sound of bullets. Shutter clicks, only cameras. When my fragmented glass cracks under their feet, there is a pause. Silence. I know they can see me, and what I have become. Please remember me as a window. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/22/strawberries monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606098440196-05D6TX6YH0JW0IYRL0HQ/107748157_10158861834207018_2230676635907850645_o.jpg Short Stories - Strawberries Hi Casey & Joey, We're glad that you enjoyed the strawberries. We hope you and all your gear stayed dry through the rain. When I brought the strawberries over, I mentioned my son. Adam was smart, funny, cared deeply about others, and loved fresh fruits and vegetables. After he graduated from college in 2011, he worked for several years as a software engineer before joining the Peace Corps in 2015 to teach mathematics in Tanzania. Joining the Peace Corps had been a dream of his since high school. What we didn't know is that Adam had been hiding severe depression from everyone since he was in middle school. In 2016, near his 1 year in-country anniversary, he was sent home from Tanzania after seeking help following a suicide attempt. Once he got home, he underwent treatment for a while which didn't seem to help much. In 2017, he started working as a software engineer again until he died by suicide on his 27th birthday on July 11, 2018. Thank you for letting us share some strawberries and Adam's memory with you. Sincerely, D. & C. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606099880913-VAQARYP3MCKXGNXJJVNX/image-asset.jpeg Short Stories - Strawberries Attached by two metal carabiners, a whiteboard on the back of Joey’s bicycle tallied our miles and sparked conversation. With a damp rag, we erased everything and wrote “In Memory of Adam” surrounded by an assortment of strawberries drawn in red. And we rode the entire day together, carrying the memory of a man we never knew to the unknown places we have yet to discover. All three of us. Minnesota, USA Mile 339 June 22, 2020 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606098373937-AGEJ8V5EO5NG0OOBUJYN/106776251_10158836964322018_9180083528041903411_o.jpg Short Stories - Strawberries Rearranging the hand I was dealt, I laid the first card on the picnic table and swatted at the persistent mosquitos circling us. It had been a week since our bicycle journey began, and we just crossed over the border into Minnesota. We waited to set up our tent at dusk to avoid paying our dues. That was our routine - stealth, rest, and departure. The city park had an artificial pond surrounded by retired fisherman, catching and releasing stocked fish to pass over the weekend. A couple came over to us with an outstretched hand. Initially, we thought they were rangers asking for our permit. There is a storm coming - you two better head over to that shelter. The radar on their phone showed a red amorphous pulse heading in our direction within the hour. Joey and I called our game a draw as we were never really invested anyways and pushed our weighted bicycles under the pavilion. Hidden between the other campers, we decided that we waited long enough to assemble our tent. The couple returned not too long after with a bowl of strawberries. You remind us of our son Adam - he was a cyclist just like you. Must be Minnesota nice, we thought. The couple returned to their RV and we fell asleep shortly after. The storm had passed over night, and we rose early. I tore a blank page from my weathered notepad and wrote a thank-you note for the strawberries, pinning it under the blade of their windshield. A few days later, we received an email that carried more weight than our bikes could ever bear. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2020/11/30/the-lady-of-chartres monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1606757174912-WRJ76BUGOA8ANUFFJTWB/DSCF6700.jpg Short Stories - The Lady of Chartres France November 2019 The luthier rests beside the cathedral of Chartres, undressing her stonework for a better ear to the gospel choir. At a nearby restaurant, he mistakenly ordered too much to drink, lacking the vocabulary to correct his broken French. He stammered toward the entrance, listening to the haunting organs as if the echoes resonated from his own creation. The labyrinth on the floor was shaped much like the round space found in his guitars - an exposed, rhythmic heart. From there, the cathedral stole his remaining breath to exhale acoustics beyond the confines of its ribbed arches. He once told his wife that if he were to ever love another, Lady Chartres would be his mistress. Before he left, the man memorized the cathedral’s blueprint and dedicated his life to replicate her song. It had been some time ago. As our friendship grew, I became fascinated by the stories of his time in France. Reproduced remnants of the church are hung from the walls of his home, depicted in paintings, models, and photographs. One day, the man invited me over for coffee to see his latest guitar. I once heard him play the chords inside his curtained workshop. The luthier was a humble man, and even before he started playing, he made sure to point out the inconsistencies and blemishes that scarred his instrument. But when he strummed the strings, I could hear the Lady of Chartres in all her perfection. He joked that his guitars differ from his competitors, because they never fell out of tune. I believed him. After all, it was not his creation, but the luthier himself that has always kept me attuned. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/last-day-in-colombia monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1609365567836-STXVK29CY2VHSP0MOJ4T/IMG-20200319-WA0017.jpg Short Stories - Last Day in Colombia March 17, 2020 The call dropped four times. From my vacant hostel dorm, I collapsed on the bed, pulling the sheet covers tight across my face to suppress my stifled cries. “Casey, what do you mean? You can’t leave Colombia, you just arrived...” --- Isabella? You there? “Hola Casey, why can’t you stay with us anymore? We got permission...” “Isabella, listen. I have to leave today. The borders are closing...” --- Dammit. “Can you hear me, Casey? We will come to Sogamoso to see you in the afternoon and...” “No, you stay. I will come see you now, okay? Don’t move.” I hung up before the reception cut it for me. My dimly lit room had four beds, but no one had checked-in to the hostel for the past week. I quickly packed my things and placed them under the bottom bunk. My boots were still soaked from yesterday’s unexpected downpour, but it was the only pair I had to wear. I locked my room, rushing out the front door through the garden and gate. The tattered map inside my head was outdated - I remember catching the buses along the river, but something must have changed. It has been three years. Pedestrians changed sidewalks to avoid the last remaining foreigner in their town. He probably has it - keep a safe distance. The day before, a street vendor at the Bogota bus terminal yelled “gringo” at me, covering his mouth with his hand. I still remember those angered, yet unprovoked eyes. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1609366086926-NS1MGBDPP8MKB948DSX6/IMG-20200317-WA0016.jpg Short Stories - Last Day in Colombia I hailed a taxi. For 30 minutes, the driver and I rode in silence, dodging the inconsistencies in the pavement. When we arrived, he dropped me off at the lonely town square. The town seemed drained of color. Shops and schools were closed to prevent further spread of the virus. I ran a few blocks and turned the street corner to find 10-year old Benjamin, kicking a ball against a wall as if the bounce came from an imaginary brother. “Hola Casey”, he said with his toothy grin. “Benjamin, let's go find your mom and sister, okay?” The two of us passed the ball on the cobbled streets as the residents peered down at us from their balconies. There is no vacancy here either, I thought. We arrived at the foothills of the finca where their mother Oliga had finished milking the cows. I rushed to her and gave her an apologetic hug for my absence. As if on cue, Isabella made her entrance with a stampede of fifty stubby legs and wooly torsos sprinting down the hill in orderly panic. Isabella and her dogs herded the sheep to a patch of grass near the river. We were all together again, and for a brief moment, I sighed in relief. Oliga and Benjamin went into town to get us lunch while Isabella and I tended to the animals. “I don’t have much time.” I untied the bracelet on my wrist and wrapped it around hers. “This is to remember me.” Isabella laughed. “I will never forget you, Casey.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1618239304065-9T8YXEJEHE256APDMQAG/WhatsApp+Image+2021-03-14+at+8.10.28+AM.jpeg Short Stories - Last Day in Colombia Half an hour later, Oliga and Benjamin returned, and we had a picnic in the shade as a family - chicken, fries, and ginger ale. The cows saw an opportunity to graze beyond their bounds, and wandered around the bend in the road. "Benjamin, vacas!" We saw their escape from the hillside, and Benjamin ran down the valley after them. The dogs followed and eventually Benjamin lured them back. We finished our picnic, and Isabella went back up to their finca to care for a sick sheep. Oliga and Benjamin rounded up the cows and tied each of them to their post. I glanced at my phone: several missed messages from friends in Bogota. "Did you leave yet? It's getting worse - there are more confirmed cases.” The department of Boyaca announced that all bus travel outside its borders will cease by tomorrow morning until further notice. The journey to the capital was four hours away from Sogamoso. I was running out of time. I told my family that I needed to go. Oliga, Benjamin, and I waited on the gravel path until a truck passed. The driver was hesitant to pick us up. Recently, two French tourists made national headlines for contracting the virus without proper quarantine, causing them to be expelled from the country. "You’re out of luck, you know. I heard the Bogota airport is completely shut down. You have nowhere to go.” This cannot be true, but his confidence played on my uncertainty. I still have today. We arrived at the square where the taxi dropped me off just four hours ago. The local bus was parked at the corner, and the driver was sitting in the café across from us, laughing with his regular company. I checked the time and knew this was one of the last remaining routes to Sogamoso for the day. The three of us sat under the church, waiting for Isabella to meet with us. The bells rang, and the sky suddenly became darker. I reached into my pocket and put whatever money I had left into Oliga’s pocket. She objected, but I held my hand over it. "Take care of yourselves, okay? I’ll be back." She kissed my cheek, and we said nothing more.When the driver finished his coffee and headed in our direction, urgency spiked once more. Where is Isabella? Oliga called her phone with no answer. The bus honked for departure with no one on board. Oliga pleaded for five more minutes, but the driver held up two fingers. Two minutes. From the corner of the square, Isabella appeared with her dog by her side - running as fast as she could. We all collided together with one last embrace. Without warning, the driver released the parking brake, and the bus started to coast downhill. Time was up. I hopped onto the moving bus, and did not bother to find a seat. I waved at them through every window, wishing there were more glass panes so I could never lose sight of them. When the bus finally turned the corner, I could not see the square anymore. And rain streaked down every window on the way to Bogota. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/1/3/foreclosure monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1609716582122-8SGII2Y3Y7LDPWQF6CM3/133776992_1378594705809499_5633596512194157259_n.jpg Short Stories - Foreclosure June 23, 2014 Gameza, Colombia When the man called down to us from the balcony, he asked for a pack of cigarettes and something to eat. We went to the market and met him at his front door with the items he requested. As he spoke about his past, I glanced down the dark corridor from which he came. Ankle deep in overgrowth, nature wished to evict him. Veins of ivy crawled on the walls of this unguarded prison. His cell had a key that was used to carve names on the wall. The old man pointed out the ones that belonged to his children. It reminded me of my father when I was young, marking the increments of my changing height on the panel beside the door. But only a troubled soul would etch such lines into adulthood. None of his children came back for him - to care for their toothless, crippled father in his ruin. We said our goodbyes and within a few days, I too forgot about the man on the balcony. April 17, 2017 The raised hair on my arm reminded me of something, as I walked down the street. I looked in every direction until I found the balcony above, where the man stood so many years ago. But it was different now. The roof had collapsed at the spot where I heard his plea - the scaffolding of his sorrows buried in tile and brick. I peeked through the rusted door hinge, concerned for his well-being, as if everything transpired in real time. The corridor was so thick with thistles that I could no longer read the wall. Just then, I felt a dreadful breeze come from inside. The exhale briefly parted the untamed grasses, hissing caution toward me as if the house found new tenants. There was no notice of foreclosure, but his eviction was evident. Now his vacancy takes residence in the halls of my mind. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/lullaby monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612464011715-ZQGRVK0UV05Y0EEOGOSF/_DSC7072-2.jpg Short Stories - Lullaby Parque Tayrona, Colombia March 29, 2017 The trusted hands of his grandmother were like strong planks that taught the boy how to levitate. His desperate kicks and cries eventually subsided when she aligned his crooked spine parallel with the sea. With his back to the depths, the boy looked up at her - the woman who gave him balance. She hummed a melody that slowed the pace of his breathing, one that drifted away with every passing tide until she let go. In the silence of waves, rolled the sea down his cheeks. He lay there motionless like polished driftwood being carried away on the shoulders of the sea. As if under a spell, he stared at the sky for a while, and then closed his eyes to listen. Sailors never trusted the songs of the sea, for fear it would lure them astray. But not all of their songs are destined for misfortune and ruin. Maybe the sound of his grandmother’s lullaby lies suspended - between the heavens and the abyss. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/orange-blossoms monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612467632941-WQX3COEUSAOU0LS9YVTR/DSCF1153.jpg Short Stories - Orange Blossoms November 2019 Amsterdam, Netherlands The buildings of Amsterdam are like crooked teeth, sinking deep into the gums of the canal from centuries of decay. A single street lamp warms the damp cobblestones where I stood - tracing my fingers along cracked brick and mortar. As I glance down the dark ends of the alley, I roll the paper note into a small capsule before placing it inside the crevice. I button my jacket, curse under my breath, and walk away with immediate regret. This won’t change a thing, I thought - even if she finds it. I remembered the night we met. It was springtime, and the fragrance of orange blossoms bloomed in the streets of Granada. I waited for her beside a fountain when I received a phone call. Where are you? I heard the ever replenishing pool in the background and glanced down at my basin of stagnant water. Wet, dead leaves beached on the shores of cold stone. This was not the same fountain. A few blocks apart, I found her there - smiling at my mistake. We wandered the streets wrapped in conversation. Have we met before? She stopped suddenly to pick up a fallen orange and pointed at the trash bin on the corner. An improvised game of basketball started on the sidewalk - hands stained in their perfume. And since then, the world seemed less fascinating. She had become my atlas, and the only world I wanted to explore was one where we were together. Winter had arrived, and I had gone - back home after nearly a year. The wedged note burrowed so far that she was never able to retrieve what I wrote for her. I thought of the wasted ink, aging alone in its hollow. One day, this building’s secret will drown with it, and whatever is left will recede into the canal’s shore, like withered leaves of late autumn. I still dream of her - of the bountiful trees and their amber-colored fruit. I wander the same streets in my mind for the hundredth time, as if we are trapped in the season. But as I glance out my window, the perpetual flurry of snow breaks the spell. The oranges never had time to ripen, and neither had we. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/evergreens monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612749243562-H1A5RZHNRSFNX8HDTVI4/DSCF0600.jpg Short Stories - Evergreens January 2021 The basketball court is still there, but only if you look for it. Our father staked down the post decades ago and bolted the backboard behind a wall of infant evergreens. When we were young, my brothers and I would draw out the lines with chalk on the driveway. We mustered all the strength we had to hurl the ball at regulation height. The pines were tame then - they respected our play. But whenever we missed the mark, they demanded forgiveness. Our lofted faults meant being scratched, pricked, and struck. Sometimes it would take our ball to the tallest branches for us to toss other objects to get it back. And whatever was left up there was kept until the next windy day. Today the backboard is engulfed in evergreens. Our court is just a turnabout for our daily commute, an abandoned gymnasium left in spined shadows. Some mornings, I walk past them to check the mailbox. I can hear sharp needles rustle against the frame like greedy fingers, pulling it closer every year. There is something strange about them - as if they refuse to give it back. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/untidy monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612468133602-2SI5XAPX2EXW4VK6P9X1/_DSC8810.jpg Short Stories - Untidy “You are making the room untidy.” “Excuse me?” “Please, have a seat.” Are you serious? The two of us were both volunteers in a Moroccan animal sanctuary, passing the hottest hours of the day by drinking tea beside a dozen rescue dogs. Her remark caught me by surprise. Did my looming presence make her uncomfortable? I found a seat across from her still affronted by the meaning of her words. Untidy. Did my angle of our conversation bother her? I reached for the pot of sweet mint tea and poured its golden steep from high above my glass. In Moroccan culture, it’s a gesture of welcome and respect - but in this moment, I felt neither. All my life, I made rooms untidy. I imagined the walls of my own home decorated with pinned maps, antique globes, and framed photographs from all corners of the world. Visitors could contemplate the space of my personal gallery, yet speculate on the open backpack in the corner of the room. Where was I headed next? I thought of these rooms as only temporary installations, ready to move on to the next collection. How untidy of me - to busy myself with what is to come rather than muse with my guests. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/the-loneliest-road monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612469561417-3D6GARCQFQ6RNSWDFJFJ/DSCF9921+-+smaller.jpg Short Stories - The Loneliest Road U.S. Highway 50 September 2020 The signpost marked the beginning of “the loneliest road in America”, a desolate 400-mile stretch of blue ridge mountains - enveloped in emptiness. With enough food and water to last a few days, I rode the entirety of Highway 50 by bicycle, everything secured together by fatigued bungees. Only a few miles outside the town of Ely, I stopped at the sight of a headless mule deer crucified by a barbed wire fence. The back hooves were tangled around the ankles so tightly that it must have died slowly from exhaustion, starvation, hope. This is an unforgiving place, I thought. Loneliness precedes only death. It came with warnings. The rotting cattle carcasses made me suspect drunken poachers, taking aim at the livestock that roamed this barren landscape. And the bounties confirmed it - $250,000 reward for their names. I did not want to set up camp here - to tempt them with a lonely speck off in the distance. There are towns along the way - eerie places with ghosts that still gamble, curse, and speak of the good days, when their home thrived from the mining boom almost a century ago. In the dead town of Austin, a woman dressed in colonial attire served me in an empty restaurant. She carried a pistol with a long barrel that ran the seam of her dress. There’s no law here, she said to me. I made sure to leave her a generous tip. I spoke candidly to the lonely road as if it needed the company. Maybe it was only to keep my sanity. My words filled the emptiness, but I swore I was heard. Dust and debris from the raging California fires caked my lungs and clawed my eyes, a relentless force that tried to keep me here. One cloudless afternoon, the wind caught me by surprise and pushed me into a steep ditch. Speeding cars come so infrequently that no one would find me here had I been injured. Occasionally one would stop out of concern - to replenish my water bottles. A man from Reno drove 8-hours to the middle of nowhere in search of a missing paraglider. He was part of a volunteer rescue team, equipped with drones with thermal sensors and aerial footage. I camped with the team at the fairgrounds in Eureka. In the middle of the night, they received promising news - red splotches from the thermal imagery promised signs of life. But there was nothing to be found. It was Day 5 when we all parted, there was no hope left of finding the paraglider alive. Between each summit, I am reminded where I came from and how far I needed to go. Trapped in the valley for hours, I wanted to surrender. This is torture - not a single bend in the road to forget nor anticipate. When the road finally inclines, I am already spent and dismount from my bicycle. Hundred yards in front of me, a car pulls over. I was convinced it was for me - after all, I was Sisyphus, condemned to push my rock for eternity only to start over again. They waited awhile, and left before I could reach them. Maybe it wasn’t for me - all this attention the past few months made me too bold. I reached the top of the summit, and where the car had parked was an unopened bottle - the coldest beer I have ever had. I laughed until my chest hurt - they understood what this place does to people. All my aches and pains were soothed a mile off the road. I followed the coordinates to a heart-shaped hot spring in the middle of nowhere. I made myself a cup of instant coffee, sipping from my own private pool while wild horses fled into a hazy horizon. In the distance, an isolated thunderstorm stemmed from a single cloud. I felt oddly unconcerned when the sudden rain passed before my eyes. It was not in pursuit of anything - certainly not me. This was the only road, but it chose to follow its own pavement. My brother called me from a hospital in Denmark. He was bit by a venomous viper while out on a hike. He shared pictures of his swollen leg, purple from the waist down. A few days after, a snake crossed the road, and it was impossible for me to stop. As my tire crushed its body, I turned and watched its slender body curl in agony. The timing was ominous. My brother thanked me later for the unintentional retribution. I pulled up to a bar that served as a resting point since the Pony Express. It was the Wisconsin in me - I needed a drink. The owners spoke their minds. You pedaled all this way, for what? You crazy motherfucker. We all laughed and drank, exchanging our stories. I wrote a note on the back side of a photograph I carried with me. Before I left, they displayed the photograph of my hometown behind the bar. When I reached Carson City, I thought it was over. I reached civilization - chain restaurants, busy traffic, and noise. But I cannot help but wonder, was I ever truly lonely? http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/2/4/horizons monthly 0.5 2021-04-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1612470066688-L73GH13IBQSX2VQN6F0Y/DSCF8781-2+-+smaller.jpg Short Stories - Horizons Atlas Mountains, Morocco June 2019 The sun set through a closed curtain, bleeding diagonal light down the Atlas Mountain peaks. I felt cheated. After all, these vertical towers were not my customary. Mary was right - we are drawn to our familiar. I wish I could have drawn the blinds and let it all in. I had my tripod perched high above the mosques and villages. A young Moroccan boy approaches me, speaking in French then Arabic. I did not understand a word of either. Hand gestures danced in the open space between us. He pointed to his notebook and tore a page from it - old homework. I followed his lead. With a crease and fold, he held a paper airplane between his fingers and called on the wind. When he let go, the slight breeze caught his plane but plummeted to the ground. He ran down the side of the hill to retrieve his craft, smoothing out the zigzagged tip from the collision. Attempt after attempt - his potential always fell short. As the curtain began to close, the boy threw it one last time. The young pilot flew high enough to see it - my horizontal sunset. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/2021/10/11/roadkill monthly 0.5 2021-10-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1633982248300-RO8HKBMA6EIS2J2XEEDH/DSCF4335-4+smaller.jpg Short Stories - Roadkill - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/trust monthly 0.5 2021-10-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1633982498991-P4R8HBUH7XLRTOZ9ARCT/DSCF8367-ddd3+smaller.jpg Short Stories - Trust - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/stories/tag/shorts monthly 0.5 http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/southamerica daily 0.75 2020-01-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1579111428972-WUEUQEH52MEXFAJ5W8BS/DSC_0611.jpg 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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1579113283695-OVXX12191VNXM1213K10/DSCF8194.jpg Northern Africa https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1579113432196-61T9FF1R7FGC8EH8CLS8/DSCF8643.jpg Northern Africa http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/book daily 0.75 2023-07-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1570085848428-GWQLQNPURP4P0EPFX55W/cover+smaller+sample.jpg Book It is a travesty that so much of life is forgotten. I started photography not as a way of expression, but of preservation. My photographs embody the idea of ephemerality, a tool I use to suspend my adventures in permanence. Over the years, I find myself thinking in the past tense - reminiscing in a world I keep unearthing. I relive the best years of my life like a film I adore on repeat, a habit that comes at the expense of the present. I have this tendency to immortalize memories through photography and never allow them to decay to forgetfulness. But it also bears the burden of remembrance. Words seem to escape me when people inquire about my work. The details surrounding that once familiar place are beginning to fade. There have been instances where I cannot recall my own presence in my photography - amnesia to an experience that I try so desperately to hold close. I have learned that permanence is never guaranteed, and my efforts to preserve is a race against time - one I will never win. Photography allows me to be an archivist and reflect on what I have accomplished. The pages bound in this book contain glimpses into my past - moments that I will never be able to repeat or capture again. My words are observations derived from five years of journal entries in over thirty countries. With this book, I hope to find comfort and balance between my past, present and future. Ephemerality is available for free as a PDF - best viewed when downloaded. http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/support daily 0.75 2023-01-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605377002866-C9SGB8IXOAWHL6NQ7UAD/DSCF1084+-+smaller.jpg Thank You http://www.caseyfrenchphotography.com/printswithpurpose daily 0.75 2022-12-14 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/4ef2613d-56a2-47fd-8627-76c2b94ebe3c/_DSF4944+-+smaller.jpg Prints with Purpose - Thank You (2022 Update) Back in October 2020, I announced my Prints with Purpose campaign, where every print helped create a small fund for my brother and sister - Benjamin and Isabella. Because of you, I was able to raise $1,500 for a Colombian family I adore and make a small difference in their lives. And earlier this year, I was able to give it to them in person. During my time in Colombia, I spent most of it not exploring new places, but revisiting the old ones that defined my experience there in 2014. Many of my stories now start out “Eight years ago, this is how it was. Today, things have changed.” But what hasn’t changed is my love for this region - Sugamuxi, the place where the indigenous Muisca people once believed the Sun was born. Today, I am excited to announce that I am creating a nonprofit that will bridge my two homes together. It’s called Sumercé (soo-mehr-seh), a word used by the inhabitants of Boyacá to show kindness and respect. Sumercé works with more than a dozen local artisans to provide fair wages for them and their families. Each item is purchased directly from the source, allowing for immediate impact and meaningful change. As this Prints with Purpose campaign comes to a close, I want to thank all of you who contributed and express how incredibly grateful I am for your generosity. To learn more about Sumercé, click here. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1602892491796-D1G4CCMD6T0RWW3I1AKF/fbook+announcment.jpg Prints with Purpose - Our Story Back in 2014, I accepted a volunteer position in Colombia as a photographer at the non-profit organization Fundación Montecito. Every day, my job was to catch the local bus and capture the quiet, undisturbed towns with my camera that make up the region of Sugamuxi. The goal of this project was to create a portfolio of photographs to help promote responsible tourism - which in turn will help fund conservation efforts for the region. One day, I wandered down a cobbled street of one of these pueblos. There I found a woman and her 10 year old daughter smiling at me. When I asked if I could take their photograph, they obliged. The mother Olga waved me to follow them to their finca on the side of the mountain. In their adobe farmhouse, Olga made us all lunch on an old, wood-burning stove. She introduced me to all the animals they care for - some fifty sheep, four dogs, a dozen chickens, few cows, and a donkey named Cleopatra, who would barge through the door for a share in our meal. I met her 6 year old son later that afternoon when he returned from school. When it was time for me to go, I promised to return later that week to give a copy of a photograph I took of them. And thus began my friendship with Olga, Isabella, and Benjamin. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/36fa9c2b-fbb4-477a-a428-b8ba7e1ec223/_DSF1366.jpg Prints with Purpose - The Pandemic Over the years, we have kept in touch. In 2017, I returned to visit and stay with them for a week. I was quickly adopted into the family, and the children have called me their ‘hermano’ ever since. In March 2020, I was prepared to spend an entire month with them. But as the pandemic spread throughout Colombia, the government announced an emergency shutdown of all public transportation. By noon the following morning, there would be no buses until further notice. I remember their faces when I said I couldn’t stay anymore. My brother and sister begged me not to go. But with teary eyes, I waved from the window of the last remaining buses heading home. I was heartbroken. When Isabella turned 16 in 2020, I wished her ‘happy birthday’ from 3,000 miles away. It eventually dawned on me how much they have grown since the day we met. And I wanted my next visit to be special. I know I will never be able to give to them as much as they have already given me. But with this campaign, every print purchased helped provide a college fund for my Colombian sister and brother - Isabella and Benjamin. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/555c8fece4b0425d05f44023/1605378180249-TPIB276GKTKGE7JIGJQR/IMG-20200319-WA0015.jpg Prints with Purpose - Dedication Thank you Lunar & Lake Book Market for the platform to share my story. A few years ago, I came back to Fond du Lac from a bicycle journey across the country with nothing left but stories. The owner Margaux let me in on her dream, and the two of us were learning what it took to run a small business. But for me, she gave me a physical space to promote this campaign. I would watch customers flip through my photographs - watch them pick them up and read the story on the back. As a photographer, nothing has brought me more joy than to watch my work reach the counter - especially without knowing who took the photograph. And that feeling is incredibly validating as someone who often doubts my own abilities and the transient lifestyle I chose to follow over the past decade. Thank you Jen & Rich from Artesanos Design Collection in Durango, Colorado for stocking my print inventory in your store. They took my brother and I into their home during our cross-country bicycle trip from Wisconsin to California. Much to my surprise, they chose to donate their commission right back into the Prints with Purpose campaign. Thank you Ang from Mix It Up Bakery for choosing my campaign as the recipient for your monthly generosity “tip jar” for March 2021. Thank you Gallery & Frame Shop for being the cornerstone for the Fond du Lac art scene. Many of my successes as a photographer stemmed from their generosity, support, and guidance. Thank you Juan Carlos Morales Agudelo for permission to use one of his amazing paintings of Isabella to promote the campaign. And to all of you, who supported my work all these years. 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