now is all you have

Köln

2012-02-06T16:43:00.000-08:00

Köln, Germany. Getting to know my family and myself.

Twas Now

2012-02-06T15:14:00.000-08:00

"It is what it is."

Those words feel like last year's mantra. For far too long, I was willing to accept certain things as they were, simply because I was too scared to try and change them.

As we transitioned into 2012, I made the resolution to take a sweeping and drastic step towards carrying out the work I have always wanted to do. Since then, I have been condensing my life into a backpack and choosing a direction. This is not a time of sadness for me, nor am I running away from anything. I am very excited to see where this new path will lead and I am leaving home with very pleasant memories. Those who know me well know that I have often struggled to get along with the big city environment, but I'm both overjoyed and grateful to now feel love for Toronto. I learned years ago that one's happiness comes not from where they are, but whom they share their surroundings with. Thanks to my wonderful friends, new and old, I now see Toronto as a home I can come back to. The only weight in my heart at this time comes from having to say goodbye to so many loving people and a community where I felt truly welcomed.

As much as I was enjoying myself at home, I knew that it was time to go. I am writing you this from Köln, Germany, the first leg of a journey that will last as long as it needs to. There are stories I need to tell and things I need to explore. This is something I have known ever since I first picked up a camera. Today, I'm happy to declare that I am finally ready to take this on.

These are my final pictures from home before I left. They are like little scraps of paper that form a memory that I now cherish. It feels like every photograph I have made up until now has been practice. Wish me luck.

11-12

2011-12-29T20:13:00.001-08:00

I paused. The frigid winds of Christmas night slapped and stung my face as I looked down at the salty concrete below. My hands were wet and cold, clinging to the icy steel rungs of a roof access ladder, half way up the side of an old tire factory, my camera eagerly anticipating the view from the top. I said to myself, “This isn’t what normal people do.”

I couldn’t help but think about all the people I know that wouldn’t think it was unusual for me to be hanging off the side of a building in the middle of the night. I am so blessed to have all of those people in my life – for the adventures we’re had, the thoughts and feelings we’ve shared and the understanding and support we’ve built. Some of you I have known for a lifetime and others for only a few months, but I want all of you to know just how grateful I am to be alive in the same time and place as you are. Now is all you have and the people you share it with truly make it what it is.

Happy Holidays, Solstice and New Year, my friends. I love you all.

Occupy Toronto G44 Exhibition

2011-12-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

10 days ago, Alice Dixon, the Exhibition Coordinator at Gallery 44 Centre for Contemporary Photography, approached me to do a showing of my Occupy Toronto photos. Alice wanted the exhibition to be timely and told me that we'd have about eight days to get everything ready. Between photographing the imminent eviction of St. James Park, getting the photos prepped and sent to Alice, and other assignments and work, things were a bit busy. Nevertheless, everything got done and the show turned out great.

The exhibition features three 30" x 45" Giclée prints and three HD monitors running slideshows of photographs. The work will be on display through the month of December in the Gallery 44 Vitrines at 401 Richmond Street in Toronto.

I am really excited to be a part of a project that marries the timeliness of photojournalism with the aesthetic and presentation of contemporary photography. The show opened last night and the responses were overwhelmingly positive. Alice, Darren, Marvin and everyone else at Gallery44 did a fantastic job in helping it all come together.

Below are a few photos from last night's opening. Enjoy!

Occupy Toronto Eviction

2011-11-24T15:22:00.000-08:00

I headed down to St. James Park at about 11pm on Tuesday night and spent the evening photographing what I figured would be the last hours of the occupation of St. James Park. Unfortunately, I was right. Toronto Police arrived the following day at about 6am and moved in at 7am. What followed was a day-long process of systematic evictions, property destruction and arrests. The entire process dismantling and disposing of the community lasted from sunrise to sunset. Although police and media contest that the eviction was peaceful, many people, including myself, saw as it as a violent assault upon the rights and emotions of the occupiers. The worst part was watching the police drag protesters into paddy wagons before they destroyed the sacred fire that had tended to by First Nations elders since the beginning of the occupation.

On a personal level, this process was very hard to watch. I'm not afraid to admit that I shed a few tears while my face was behind the camera. You can say what you want about the OWS movement, but I saw the occupation of St. James Park as a powerfully symbolic community. The dedicated individuals who gave their time and effort to make it possible are real heros. Their hard work created a lightning rod for passionate hope and change where everyone was welcome to contribute. It will be dearly missed.

Tents and signs may be crushed in trash compactors and buried in the ground, but their occupants and authors live on. Thoughts and ides cannot be censored or silenced between whispering lips and open ears. Words cannot be punched, kicked or stomped under military boot soles. A movement can never be evicted from a park, just as the growing outrage of a people will never go away on its own. The 99% are still the 99% and that fact will carry them into the future with strength and unity.

The Last Days of St. James

2011-11-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

These are photos that I meant to post earlier. They were taken on a few different visits to the Occupy Toronto camp over the past couple weeks. Unfortunately, some outside factors prevented me from photographing the happenings of the community in St. James Park as much as I would have liked to. As many now know, the camp was evicted yesterday. I will have photos from that posted here shortly.

Jenna Morrison

2011-11-15T11:54:00.000-08:00

On the morning of November 7th, a cyclist was stuck and killed by a transport truck on Toronto's west end. By pure chance, I happened upon the site of the accident not long after it happened. What I saw there was very upsetting and I made the choice not to take any photographs. It wasn't until a couple days later that I learned the fallen cyclist was 38-year-old Jenna Morrison, who was five months pregnant with her second child.

News of the tragedy quickly spread through Toronto's cycling community and received a high amount of media attention. Yesterday, one week after the accident, hundreds of cyclists met at 7:30am at Bloor and Spadina for a ghost ride to the accident site. The ride was completely silent and swelled to nearly 1000 riders by the time it reached the west end. Jenna's friends and family took turns speaking and some installed a ghost bike close the spot where Jenna lost her life.

A Quick Memory From Fort Chipewyan

2011-11-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

Occupy Toronto - A Rainy March Through The Financial District

2011-10-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

Today a group from the Occupy Toronto camp decided to go on a march through Toronto's Financial District. The weather was frigid rain and the attendance was modest, but the demonstrators made up for this with a tremendous showing of heart. The march made its way down King Street to Bay, stopping briefly to occupy that intersection and a few other prominent places before culminating with an enthusiastic impromptu dance party in front of the TSX. On two separate occasions, protestors called to police, thanking them for their work and encouraging them to join the protest. Although everyone ended up wet and cold, the crowd seemed to agree that this had been a positive, energetic, effective demonstration.

Occupy Toronto - Good Vibes At St. James Park

2011-10-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

On the evening of October 17th, after a long day of marches, demonstrating and General Assembly, Occupy Toronto protestors gathered to relax at their home base in St. James Park. The evening was filled with music, reading and friendly conversations. I was really happy to find the overall vibe in the park to be inclusive, positive and non-confrontational. People from all walks of life were free to express themselves and speak their minds. Disagreements on political ideologies and values were discussed calmly and openly and everyone was welcome to contribute.

Although the process of reaching group consensus on various decisions is slow, I do feel that it is truly democratic and informed by all parties involved. The supportive and patient nature of the protestors seems to be providing an environment where this process and the movement as a whole can grow and evolve in a positive direction. I am exited to see where it leads.

Occupy Toronto (part 1)

2011-10-17T19:24:00.000-07:00

I have been closely following the Occupy Wall Street protest movement as it unfolds in New York and throughout the world. On the 15th of October, occupation-style protests emerged across Canada. Today was my first day back in Toronto since then and I was eager to begin photographing the demonstrations. Below is a few photos I made today during a rally and march that made its way through downtown Toronto and eventually ended with a General Assembly at St. James Park.

To those who say that the "Occupy" movement suffers from a lack of direction and focus, I feel you should pay more attention. These events as incredibly uplifting and positive and the people involved in them are some of the greatest citizens of our country. This is because they care enough to go out and try to affect positive change, rather than sitting at home on the couch. The specific content of each individual person's message may differ, but the general direction is consistent. People are fed up with 1% of the world's population controlling the majority of the world's assets, natural resources and governments. It is the ever widening gap between the super wealthy and the other 99% of the human race that is fuelling this discontent. These issues are not going away any time soon, but as long as they exist, the world's population will remain outraged, whether it be in public or in private.

I plan to continue my coverage of the Occupy Toronto protests and make somewhat frequent blog updates for as long as I can.

I got Dagged...

2011-09-19T18:18:00.000-07:00

Friend and fellow photographer Thomas Dagg recently did a really nice little bio on me for his blog. I'm not usually one to step over to the other side of the camera, so it was an interesting experience to say the least. He did a really nice job on the portraits and asked some very thoughtful questions in his interview. Check it out here.

With Greenpeace in the Tar Sands

2011-09-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

I was recently commissioned by Greenpeace do a series of photographs in the Alberta Tar Sands. The assignment included making pictures of concerned community members and activists holding signs in front of compromised or industrialized landscapes in Northern Alberta. From there, Greenpeace displayed the photographs in public places throughout Washington D.C. in support of the public protest against the Keystone XL Pipeline.

Often my work straddles the boundaries between journalism, art and activism. While my photographs are documents of reality and fact, I am still faced with the task of interpreting a subject and conveying it visually. It is at this crucial stage where my own feelings come into play. This is impossible to avoid and while some journalists try to fight or deny this process, I choose to embrace it. I believe that as a human being, I have no choice but to be emotionally invested in my subjects. Otherwise, the story will never truly impact the viewer.

The following photographs were made August 19-21st, 2011, in the Alberta Tar Sands.

I am not an environmantalist. I am merely in favour of the longevity of human life. Mother Nature will always endure long after the oil has all burned and the air is stained brown. It is our own delicate and beautiful lives that will be lost if we remain indifferent to change. Still, we continue to treat the Earth as a host instead of our nurturing and generous creator.

2011-09-13T17:41:00.001-07:00

I didn't know Jack

2011-08-25T23:44:00.000-07:00

It was last Monday morning at about 8:30. I had just arrived in the airport in Fort McMurray, Alberta to catch a 9:30 flight into the isolated northern community of Fort Chipewyan. By some strange twist of fate, I had actually managed to arrive early. To pass the time, I flipped on a nearby television only to see a headline that I doubt I will ever forget:

“Jack Layton 1950-2011”

There is was. It whizzed by like all the other news through the news machine. It almost felt wrong, as if the world should have stopped for a second, a day, a month to breathe. CNN didn’t care, but why would they? The oilsands employees around me didn’t take much notice either. I wanted them to ground all the planes, shut of their cell phones and just watch.

I cried a few times that day.

To me, it seemed that in death, Jack Layton’s power and influence grew much larger than ever before. This made the loss all the more painful because he would no longer be here to wield that sword. It felt like I was discovering John Lennon’s discography on the day he was shot.

Going into the 2011 federal elections this past spring, I felt like the NDP wasn’t going to make any serious gains. I was hoping for a lot more seats, but realistically I felt like it was going to be the same old show. For that reason, I felt like the New Democrat Party needed some kind of change. I think a lot of people felt that way, whether they want to admit it or not. In the weeks to follow, I would photograph Jack Layton, Michael Ignatieff and Stephen Harper at various stops along the campaign trail. I was fortunate enough to photograph Jack on three occasions.

The most notable difference between Jack and the other candidates was that he made himself extremely accessible to both the media and public. He was not afraid. Although I admired this about Jack, it also led to him being peppered with loaded questions and biased accusations from certain right-wing reporters. As much as I hated to see the media gang up on Jack, I knew he wanted it that way. He wanted everyone to know that he had nothing to hide and his platform was open to discussion. He wanted to work together with people and politicians alike to find the best solution to all our problems. I don’t know about you, but I find that to be an extremely appealing trait in someone running to be our next Prime Minister.

At first his honest and open approach didn’t seem to getting across to Canadians, but we all know how that election ended. Jack had managed to lift the NDP to historical highs, all by simply being real with people. Every speech Jack gave and all the public events I saw him participate in seemed very real and organic. Unlike that time Stephen Harper tried to pretend he was a factory worker and put the work gloves on backwards.

Jack was just being Jack… and people actually got that. When the dust settled I was shocked, but also overwhelmed with joy to see Jack Layton as the leader of the Official Opposition. It was just sweet enough to allow me to handle the reality of a Conservative majority government without moving to the Yukon for four years.

Like many Canadians, I was excited to see the NDP finally being taken seriously in mainstream media. No longer was Jack Layton to be dismissed as some left-wing pinko kook. He was the genuine article; a bona fide politician with a kick-ass socialist platform to boot. I was practically giddy with the thought that EVERYONE was going to have to listen to him talk his wonderful ideas for the next four years.

Then we lost him.

After spending his life fighting for the little guy and battling through some very serious health problems to garner the greatest political victory of his career, Jack Layton was gone forever.

It felt unfair. It felt cruel.

The picture in my mind of Canada’s future was looking pretty dark until I read Jack’s Letter.

Two things from that letter really stood out for me. The first was his iconic closing paragraph, which I think struck a chord with many people. The second was his absolute confidence in his team to take the NDP to new heights and effectively continue his legacy. The more I focused on that notion, the more I realized that Jack was right. Optimism truly is better than despair.

As someone who spends a lot of his time carrying out documentary photography that dwells in despair, this means I have some thinking to do.

I made the photograph below on Election Day in downtown Toronto. It was a rainy spring morning outside the Cecil Street Community Centre where Jack was scheduled to cast his vote in the election. Canadians from coast to coast were on the edge of their seats, eagerly waiting to find out just how far the “Orange Wave” would make it into the House of Commons. You could really feel the tension in the air. By that point in the campaign, it seemed like Jack was getting as much or even possibly more coverage than the current Prime Minister, Stephen Harper.

Part of me expected Jack to show up in an NDP tour bus or some kind of van or limo, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that he had simply decided to walk to the polling station with his partner Olivia and their family. Just like on his campaign stops, Jack was bright, positive and gracious to everyone in attendance. He paused to say hi to bystanders and answer a few questions from the media before heading inside the community hall to cast his ballot.

Because of fire code regulations, most of the media had to wait outside. When Jack and Olivia emerged from the building, they were practically mobbed by reporters, photojournalists and videographers. Microphones stretched out from tired arms as TV cameras played bumper cars in the back rows. Feet stood tiptoed on other feet and a hundred questions from many mouths cascaded upon Jack all at once.

You would think that after the intense demands of a national campaign, the onslaught of cancer treatments and that nagging, busted hip, Jack would no longer be in the mood to talk. After all, the campaign was officially and legally over. Despite all that, Jack was calm, serine and happy to talk to everyone. You could see the relief in his face. It was over. At one point, Jack leaned down to his granddaughter and said, “see Beatrice, that is what they call a ‘scrum.’” It was one of those historical moments that actually felt historical when it was happening.

That is when I made the picture you see below.

I knew it wouldn’t run in any newspaper because it didn’t show his face, but I had already covered the “safe” shots anyway. I didn’t know Jack personally, but I made this picture because this is how I saw him. Jack was a man who was always willing to give you his time, hear you out and offer some encouraging words. He was always interested and engaged in the dialogue – always willing to learn and teach. Jack Layton dedicated his life to creating the solution that would change the world.

I was going to drop off a print of the photo at his house after the election with a congratulatory note that mentioned some of the things I wrote above. Unfortunately, life got in the way and that never happened. Now Jack is gone and I am unable to attend his funeral because I am far away, pursuing work that I believe in. I hope that these words can at least do a small amount of justice to Jack’s legacy and how much I know we’re all going to miss him.

Jack's Back, Election Day, 2011, Ian Willms

"My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,

Jack Layton"

night streets

2011-07-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

For a long time now, I've been taking solo walks at night. There's just something about the darkness and artificial lighting, combined with empty streets. Sometimes I walk to calm down or figure things out. Other times I'm on my way somewhere. Whatever the reason, these walks are a big part of my process as an artist and as a person.

I'm not sure where these images are leading. It may turn into something more. For now it's just a sketch that I wanted to share. Enjoy.

Subway Sleepers

2011-07-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

Where I've Been...

2011-07-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

My apologies for neglecting the blog. Things have been a little crazy since the end of May. Two members of my immediate family came down with some pretty serious health problems and needed my help. I have spent the last month-and-a-half as a full time advocate and caretaker, while navigating my loved ones through the underfunded, crumbling framework that is the Canadian healthcare system. All this while managing to race between Kitchener and Toronto to take freelance assignments.

I'm happy to report that life is returning to normal again and I can get back to work. With that said, I'll have some new photos up shortly.

I hope you are well. Go tell your parents you love them.

-Ian

26

2011-05-27T07:27:00.000-07:00

"Twenty-six years ago and right about now I started to feel uncomfortable and crampy. By this time, I had been peeing every hour through the night so I got up to go to the washroom. I went back to bed but my back was very sore. I rolled over on my other side and went back to sleep for about an hour.

At about 8 or 8:30 I got up to use the washroom again. I shuffled back to bed, all 165 lbs. of me, and, SPLASH, my water broke. I don’t mean I had a little leak, I emptied the entire contents of amniotic fluid from my uterus all over my bed. That’s about a litre of amniotic fluid all over my sheets and mattress. Ah shit, my bed. Oh yeah, it’s time to call somebody.

I phoned the maternity department at Grand River Hospital and told them I lost all my water (they didn’t seem to care about my bed). I was told to come to the hospital immediately because babies often deliver very quickly once the water is all gone. BUT DON’T DRIVE YOURSELF they said to me. Oh, okay, so I called Herbert.

Herbert said he was on his way to a meeting in Guelph and could I wait? I said NO. He made a U-turn and was visibly nervous when he arrived. We raced off to Grand River.

When we arrived, the team put me in a wheel chair, rushed me upstairs, got me undressed and into hospital garb, smudging my make-up and messing my hair in the process. I was told to lay on the bed in the delivery room and not get up. I was attached to oxygen while they took my vitals. Everything looked good, baby and mom both strong. The birth would be quick. I were very excited. The nurses left the room.

It was 10:00 am and Herbert and I found ourselves in this hospital room all alone with nothing to do. He went out to call Gurney, Kathy, Mark and David, and his brother in Newfoundland and his mom in Germany. He didn’t show it, but he was excited also. I could tell just by looking at him. He brought me ice chips to suck on (I was allowed no water) and he snuck in a popsicle. Good boy!

We waited. Every 15 minutes a nurse would come in and check my vitals and say “all looks good, any time now”.

We waited. Eventually people started to trickle in for a visit. In those days you could have lots of visitors in your delivery room. Gurney brought a camera.

People came and went. Probably for lunch. I wasn’t allowed solid food so they didn’t eat in front of me.

Twelve hours passed like this, the only difference being my contractions were continually growing worse. You have no idea! What the fuck. Nobody told me it would hurt that much. Women and amazing creatures.

Anyway, a little after 11:15 pm the best thing in my life happened. You were born, a healthy baby boy, 27 “ long and almost 9 lbs. exactly, with a full head a brown curly hair and the splitting image of Herbert.

Gurney started taking pictures like a mad woman. Click click click all over the room. Later we found out she forgot to take off the lens cap. Ouch!

It took about an hour of pushing and not pushing and finally pulling and then, presto, one gorgeous baby arrived.

My Baby! And I Love You Forever!

Mom – happy birthday Wooden Horse"

Herbie and Tim

2011-05-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

Coming and Going

2011-05-24T08:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's impossible to know where you're going and all you have to guide you is a view of where you've been. You look ahead and it's pitch dark, you look back and the light is blindingly bright - ruining your night vision. The air is damp and the wind blowing in your face is cold and stale with death. In that moment, one has to cling to a $2 flashlight that barely works and keep moving forward.

Jesse Foster

2011-05-16T16:49:00.000-07:00

A quick portrait of artist, writer and lobster Jesse Foster. I think he's quite dandy.

Street

2011-05-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

Street photography... in colour!

The Woods

2011-05-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

Go clear your head.

Parkdale Vigil

2011-04-18T07:07:00.000-07:00

I went to a candle-lit vigil the other night for a man who was beaten to death in my neighbourhood. There have been a string of vicious attacks in the Parkdale area of Toronto over the past couple months, all of which are suspected to have been committed by the same person.

Parkdale is a pretty rough neighbourhood and moments like these when the community comes together feel special to me. I felt lucky to have stumbled upon this event. I only wish that I could have been there for more than ten minutes. It ended shortly after I arrived.

Portraits

2011-04-18T06:42:00.000-07:00

A selection of portraits from recent assignments.

Boreal Collective at Contact

2011-04-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

My work from Fort Chipewyan will be part of a group show with the rest of the Boreal Collective, this May at Bau-Xi Photo gallery, in Toronto. This event is a Featured Exhibition in the Contact Photography Festival, so myself and the rest of the collective are all very excited. Everyone is welcome to attend the opening reception on May 5th at 6pm at 324 Dundas Street West, in Toronto.

Mapping the Flâneur

2011-04-11T07:51:00.000-07:00

Mapping the Flâneur is over now. It was great to be part of such an interesting project. For an entire month, photography collectives from around the world explored the themes of Consuming, Urbanizing, and Transporting and submitted their images electronically to a live exhibition in London, England.

To see how it all worked, take a look at this video.

on the campaign trail

2011-04-11T07:45:00.000-07:00

Artist Talk - Lomography Toronto

2011-03-21T06:50:00.000-07:00

I will be giving an artist talk at the Lomography store and gallery in Toronto. The talk will give insight into the artistic process behind my Detroit photo essay and my use of the Holga camera.

The event is free and will take place at 7pm on Thursday, March 24th at 536 Queen Street West, in Toronto.

Chip in THIS

2011-03-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

My photo essay on Fort Chipewyan and the human health impacts of Canada's oilsands can be found in the March/April issue of THIS Magazine. Head to Chapters, Indigo, this.org or your local independent bookstore to pick up a copy.

To see an extended edit of this photo essay, please visit my website.

Trans-Port

2011-03-07T06:42:00.001-08:00

Another submission to Mapping the Flâneur.

smoke

2011-03-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

Two more submissions to Mapping the Flâneur.

Mapping The Flâneur

2011-03-02T17:32:00.000-08:00

Myself and the rest of the Boreal Collective are pleased to be a part of Mapping The Flâneur and will be contributing our work over the next seven days as part of their live exhibition in London, England.

"As the exhibition progresses, a visual dialogue will develop as photographers draw inspiration from each other’s work and create responses to the following three themes distilled from Walter Benjamin’s writings: Consuming, Transporting and Urbanising”

For more information or to follow the work of the other contributors, please visit http://mapping-flaneur.tumblr.com/.

2011-02-28T07:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, Wilderness!

2011-02-28T06:55:00.001-08:00

The Cloud Factory

2011-02-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

Toronto.

Evidence

2011-02-19T22:47:00.000-08:00

Jewish Defence League Protest

2011-02-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

TORONTO, ONT.: JANUARY 17, 2011 -- A member of the Jewish Defence League protests outside a community event held by The Ontario Public Interest Research Group (OPIRG) Toronto along with the Palestine Freedom of Expression Campaign (PFEX), Tuesday, January 18th, 2011, at the University of Toronto.

Portraits

2011-02-09T07:09:00.000-08:00

Some recent assignments.

Street

2011-02-09T06:38:00.001-08:00

In high school, my mind was captivated by classic street photography from the '40s, '50s and '60s. The gritty, raw and often ambiguous glimpses of urban life in America and Europe set my imagination on fire and made me want to emulate that style of art. At the time, I was too afraid to be caught taking pictures of strangers, so I mostly stuck to photographing the abandoned factories that dotted the landscape where I grew up. That's right, I was more afraid of people than abandoned buildings.

Street photography is an interesting thing. Journalists call it "feature hunting" or "enterprise", but where journalism strives to express the who, what, where, when, why and how of a given situation, street photography is only moderately concerned with one or two of those questions. I think it is that ambiguity which makes street photography both so beautiful to behold and satisfying to create.

Paul

2011-01-26T07:14:00.000-08:00

I met paul this past November when I was working on my contribution to an exhibition in London, England's New Gallery called No Comfort. Paul was living on an old garbage dump where he mined out antique bottles, dishes and pottery to sell to collectors. When him and I met it was already getting cold, but Paul told me that he planned to stay outdoors all winter along with some of the other men who lived nearby. My life became busy and I stopped going to visit Paul in December. I thought about him over Christmas. Since then I have thought about him at night as I go to sleep in my warm bed, beside my loving partner, in our comfortable apartment. Our humble home and modest lifestyle is probably considered "poor" by the standards of North America's upper and even middle classes, but it is truly more than we need when compared to Paul. Even Paul himself lives a life of luxury compared to many others who are forced to live outdoors. He has a tent with electricity and heat, a stove, a television and stereo, even a laptop with internet access. Still, he lives illegally on toxic land and risks his life while working himself to the bone everyday. All that just to find an empty bottle that he'll sell for a fraction of its worth. I don't know why Paul is outdoors, but he seems clear headed, intelligent and ambitious enough to hold a job, have an apartment and even go to school if he had the opportunity to do so.

I think about this often while I try to sleep. My friends tell me to relax, focus on positive things and just enjoy myself. Maybe I should listen to my friends... or maybe I should spend more time with Paul.

The Hammer

2011-01-24T12:27:00.000-08:00

The photos don't show it, but Hamilton is so old in the winter, it feel almost as if the city is made entirely out of solid iron. Also known as The Hammer, it is Ontario's own little slice of the American Rust Belt. Steel production was the dominant force behind their economy until globalization had its way with domestic manufacturing. Today, Hamilton is teetering on the brink of heading down Detroit's dark and rusty road. I often find myself drawn there on journeys of exploration and contemplation. The Hammer has secrets to tell me, so I may just have to spend a bit more time there next time.

BOREAL Projections - S01E02

2011-01-23T15:54:00.000-08:00

My good friend and colleague Brett Gundlock hosted the second Boreal Projections evening on January 17th, in Toronto. We had a great turnout and the atmosphere was positive and full of support. It was great to see some friendly faces that I don't get to see often enough. You all know who you are. Thanks to Brett, Lesley Sparks, Johan Hallberg Campbell and Bob Black for their time and effort, which were essential to making the event such a success.

Limbo

2011-01-10T11:11:00.000-08:00

So I was flipping through a newspaper one day when I stumbled upon an article about a video game called "Limbo". I haven't been into gaming for a long time, but what struck me was the photo of the gameplay. All black and white and very surreal. It was really beautiful stuff.

Head to the Limbo website to know more.

ho

2010-12-25T05:22:00.000-08:00

In the midst of the high pressure consumerism and family tensions that seem be synonymous with this time of year, I often find myself needing to take a step back from it all. It's easy to get cynical and bitter in late December, and that's completely understandable if you ask me. I often hear people say "but it's Christmas!" or "because it's Christmas!" as motivations of justifications for trying a little harder to be generous or to make time for other people. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Maybe we should be extending our kindness and tolerance like that all year 'round? Maybe if we put that kind of social pressure on ourselves more often, it would cease to happen? I don't know.

As much as the contemporary Christmas has been bastardized (no pun intended) by shameless capitalism and commercialization, it still seems to hold a little magic in my eyes. If it can do that for someone as cynical as me, maybe there is indeed something special about Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Festivous or any other traditions of rituals that happen around this time of year. Maybe it's just the fact that nearly everyone has to take a little time off work or perhaps it's just the eggnog. Whatever it is, I'm still feeling good about it.

Merry Winter Solstice everyone and Happy New Year.

-Ian

2010-12-18T06:19:00.000-08:00

Captain Beefheart 1941 - 2010

We'll see you later at the Part Of Special Things To Do.

Three Friends in Black and White

2010-12-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

Sarah and I met when we were 17 and even though she is 18 days older than me, I always thought of her like a little sister. This was likely due to the fact that we both grew up in similar circumstances. Whenever we got together, we would usually end up parting ways at the bus terminal in downtown Kitchener. I never liked the idea of Sarah standing there alone at night, so I would always make sure she caught her bus back to Country Hills before I went to wait for the #7 back to Waterloo. The 7 ran every 15 minutes, but the Country Hills bus only came around every 45 minutes. Often, I'd end up standing there with her, freezing my ass off in some impractical winter jacket, just to make sure she got home okay. I wouldn't change it for the world.

Shortly after I first moved to Toronto, Brett started sending me e-mails, asking if I wanted to get together with him and his girlfriend for sushi. I was new to the city and had next to no friends here, so Brett's kind offer felt like I was being tossed a life preserver. We instantly struck up a friendship over our common ground in photography and it just grew from there. It's really nice to have a friend like Brett. His chilled out demeanour is very contagious and we always seem to spontaneously find ways to have fun. It's also really nice to get to work together on our artistic practice.

Out of all the people I know, Tim is one of the most difficult to photograph. His sheepishness around the camera doesn't help, but I think it has more to do with how I feel about him. He's been there for me through all of the most vulnerable and horrific moments of my life. He's my rock. It's hard for me to capture those emotions in a photograph, but I sure enjoy trying. :)

Rust Never Sleeps

2010-12-15T08:20:00.000-08:00

Fire is a rapid, self-sustaining process of oxidization, which releases energy in the form of heat and light. Believe it or not, rust is essentially the same chemical process as fire, just slower. This is why old oil tankers have been known to combust without warning.

I learned this when I was going to college to become a firefighter. Yes, that's right, I went to Conestoga College for firefighting. I was the art kid in the back row who showed up to school in black clothes with an SLR camera over his shoulder. It went without saying that I didn't quite fit in.

Thankfully, I got my head straight, dropped out of school and went back to taking pictures of rust rather than fighting it.

Don't stay in school, kids.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

2010-12-07T18:52:00.000-08:00

At the half-tender age of 25, I still spend my solo moments walking down railroad tracks and back alleys. As I pass the rusted bones of the honest-to-goodness blue collar dream, I feel as if I have departed from the fast pace and artificiality of the nine to five world. There's often some kind of camera in my bag, a green tea in my hand and a bandana pulled up over my face to block the slap and sting of the frigid wind. The bandana soaks up the tears that stream down my face as I walk. Don't worry, I'm not crying about injustice in the world, the death of truth or some other angst-ridden slogan. I just have overactive tear ducts. As soon as I get a cold wind in the face it's Niagara Falls. Sometimes I tell people I'm sensitive. That's true, but kind of a lie at the same time.

Here's to all those ghost walks that take you somewhere else, but never seem to lead anywhere.

assignments

2010-12-06T15:05:00.000-08:00

Here are a few of my favourites from last week's assignments.

SCARBOROUGH, ONT.: DECEMBER 3rd, 2010 -- Toronto Police stand at the secne where a man was allegedly shot and killed after a stand-off with officers, on Laurel Avenue, in Scarborough, on December 3rd, 2010.
(Ian Willms for the Toronto Star)

TORONTO, ONT.: DECEMBER 1st, 2010 -- Members of the Makom Creative Downtown Judiasm community group light menorahs to celebrate Hanukkah, at Mon Ton Window Gallery, in Toronto, December 1st, 2010.
(Ian Willms for the Globe and Mail)

TORONTO, ONT.: NOVEMBER 29TH, 2010 -- Adam Nobody poses in Queen's Park on November 29th, 2010, in the spot where he claims he was chased, arrested and then repeatedly beaten by police on Saturday, June 26th, 2010, during the G20 protests, in Toronto.
(Ian Willms for The Globe and Mail)

No Comfort exhibition

2010-11-17T07:30:00.000-08:00

The following is a series of images I photographed with my cell phone for the NO COMFORT exhibition at New Gallery, Pelican House in London, England.

Here is the official press release from the live exhibition, written by Alex Sturrock:

"No Comfort is a 3 day exhibition of photo-slideshows made live by people in different countries. The slideshows are updated in real-time. All the photographs are taken and sent using standard mobile phones.
“The hope is that this participatory way of viewing allows people to feel closer to a story or person than they would if they saw the images through a typical media outlet. So many of us are “desensitized” to the reality of what we see in the mainstream media. These are personal stories sent by people who face a day to day reality very different from our own, places such as Afghanistan or Haiti. They are sent in good faith and in the hope that someone will witness them and understanding a little more what their life is like.

The images are as real as the people that take them, and without the sender the work becomes something else, therefore once this exhibition closes the slideshows will not be shown again."

Alex speaks with VICE magazine about No Comfort

For my contribution to the project, I was fortunate enough to meet and photograph a man named Paul. Paul lives on an old garbage dump in Toronto's Don Valley. To pay for food and supplies, he digs up antique bottles and sells them to collectors. The work is hard and dangerous and often carried out at night. The tunnels Paul digs go deep into the Earth and decades-old trash. The threat of bring buried alive is constant. The following images are but a glimpse into his daily life. This story is by no means complete.

The First Rule of Halloween is...

2010-10-31T22:06:00.001-07:00

Boreal Collective

2010-10-19T22:21:00.000-07:00

Documentary photographers Brett Gundlock, Rafal Gerszak, Jonathan Taggart, Aaron Vincent Elkaim and myself have come together to form the Boreal Collective.

According to our mission statement, "The Boreal Collective is a dedicated group of Canadian-based photojournalists who are committed to the documentation of injustice and inequities that exist environmentally, socially, culturally and politically in Canada and abroad.

Boreal is devoted to revealing impactful and compelling narratives, from front page news stories to topics lost in the geopolitical margins.

The collective strives to produce meaningful photojournalistic work as a collaborative body, and its members provide ongoing encouragement and support toward the individual projects of their fellow Boreal colleagues.

The members of the collective offer a diversity of professional, cultural and social experiences that inform the work of Boreal’s members, and ultimately strengthen the collective goal of inspiring a greater social consciousness in their communities, in Canada, and around the globe."

Please visit the Boreal Collective website and blog to see our work and find out what we're up to. You can also follow the Boreal Collective on Facebook and Twitter.

An introduction...

2010-10-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

"When the land is sick, the people are sick."

-Dr. John O'Connor
Fort Chipewyan, Alberta

Home

2010-10-10T19:15:00.000-07:00

I'm home from Alberta and I have stories to tell. Expect to see some photos real soon.

flyin'

2010-09-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

I will be in Alberta's Oil Sands shooting a photo documentary until October 7th.

Updates soon...

PIKTO exhibition

2010-07-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

I have an exhibition coming up at the end of August at Pikto Gallery, in Toronto.

If you would like a printed mailer to be sent to you, please send me an e-mail with your mailing address at ian@ianwillms.com or you can download is here:

Strawberry Fields

2010-07-16T14:56:00.000-07:00

Once the thousands of militant government agents with guns left my city, I felt it was time for a little break. Rach and I hopped in the car to take my water-logged D700 to Nikon (later pronounced dead, beyond repair), and just kept on driving. It was a perfect afternoon with the woman I love.

Whatever has been ruined
of the things we made,
something stays.
There is always
at least one stone
still beside another
the way we planned,
some board we planed
still smooth.
There is always some wall
we opened to the light,
some window
framing the country we came to
and created
with our own hands.

"Pioneer Builders"
by Rosemary Aubert

G20 police and media

2010-07-16T10:14:00.000-07:00

That's photojournalists Lars Hagberg, Lawrence Salza and myself on the ground. The group of us were just doing our jobs, taking photographs of a protest on Queen Street. After the protest had been broken up, and we were obeying police orders to walk east, a van pulled up full of other officers and this ensued. Toronto Police tackled us and put us all in painful pressure point holds while going through our belongings. Some of our equipment was damaged in this incident.

We were lucky. There were accredited journalists who were arrested, charged and spent time in jail. Some were so seriously injured by clubs and tasers that had to go to the hospital.

When the police target the media, they are robbing the general public of the right to know the truth.

Auto-Tune

2010-07-16T09:49:00.000-07:00

I'm going to deviate from the usual content for a moment to make a comment on Auto-Tune.

Original video

Auto-Tune

I rest my case.

The Battle of Toronto

2010-07-02T13:51:00.001-07:00

G20 protests in Toronto, June 25th-27th, photographed for the Globe and Mail.

random b-slides

2010-06-06T08:04:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty distracted over the last month and kind of neglected this blog. Sorry. Here's an explosion of random b-slides for you. Enjoy!

Love Nest in The Smoke

2010-05-17T13:29:00.000-07:00

I have officially relocated myself to central Toronto. Yeah, that's right, I'm back in The Smoke, trying to avoid the "Cool Contest" and sharing a lovely little nest with the woman I love.

Rachael Baker, 23, is the razor-sharp-shit-kicking-anarcho-feminist who has stolen my heart and I can't really say enough about that. It's nice to have a partner in crime. Someone I can take to Detroit, climb over barbed wire fences with and share a cheap bottle of beer. We ride our bikes to wasteland waterfronts, drenched in fog. We discuss issues of international and social development, classism, and philosophy while eating raw nuts and sipping red wine or tea from steel mugs. She writes, I take pictures, she takes pictures, I take pictures. It's a good combination.

Here's to our little love nest and hopes of opportunity in Toronto.

(I'm cute)

Detroit and Applied Arts

2010-05-04T07:49:00.000-07:00

My documentary series on Detroit has been featured by Applied Arts Magazine.

Take a look: appliedartsmag.com/blog

Progress

2010-05-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

This is a project I have been working on about notions of progress in North America. The photos are meant to communicate the inefficiency, injustice and hypocrisy that is deeply woven into the Western World's reckless drive for profits and bottom-line delivery. I am considering themes of classism, racism, sexism, commodification, violence, pollution, propaganda and others as I continue to explore this story.

What I have here below is a preliminary edit of where the project is at now. I hope to have it finished within the next few months.

Commodification

2010-04-21T18:44:00.000-07:00

I have posted a new story entitled "Commodification" on my website. It is about the degradation of standards in the name of profit.

www.ianwillms.com/commodification.html

Jimmy's done

2010-04-21T18:35:00.000-07:00

The Jimmy's Lunch edit is now up on my website.

www.ianwillms.com/jimmys.html

Street

2010-04-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

I just posted a selection of my street photography on my website.

www.ianwillms.com/street.html

2010-04-14T16:32:00.000-07:00

One last B-Slide from Jimmy's.

Jimmy's Lunch B-Slides

2010-04-13T12:44:00.001-07:00

These are all photos that didn't make the edit in the previous post. They are in no particular order below. I'm going to keep working on the edit over the next couple days. Some of these B-Slides will make into the edit, most won't. Feel free to drop in your two cents.

Jimmy's Lunch

2010-04-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

Jimmy's Lunch is a diner in Kitchener that was started in 1949 by Jimmy George. About five years after opening the diner, Jimmy died from a brain tumor and his son Jerry George took over. Since the mid-fifties Jerry has owned and operated the business. Not much has changed inside Jimmy's in over 60 years, but the world around it certainly has. The surrounding factories where most of their customers worked closed down as Free Trade enabled the mass-outsourcing of domestic manufacturing. As a result, business slowed down and so did Jerry. Today, the 86-year-old is still making "good food at a good price" for his customers, the majority of which have been coming for most of their lives. For decades, Jimmy's was Kitchener's only 24-hour restaurant - judges, hobos, factory workers and rockstars all sat at the same bar stools.

As the years drag on, Jimmy's Lunch continues to become more and more lonely. Many of the familiar faces around Jimmy's Lunch have passed on, including Jerry's wife Eileen. As the bustle of friends and conversation gives way to lingering ghosts, an important artifact of the past is turning to dust. The humble and methodical simplicity that Jimmy's Lunch embodies is quickly becoming a memory in our information age. Once places like Jimmy's Lunch no longer exist, will we be able to slow down enough to notice?

Dennis

2010-04-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

I'm not entirely sure if Dennis actually plays music or not, but he sure does spend any given day wailing on his six-string, sitting on at the corner of Walk and Don't Walk. I have a lot of respect for a man who just goes for it, and Dennis is most certainly that. He seems to have a different guitar nearly every time I see him, on account of having to constantly pawn his instrument to make ends meet. Despite all that, he's at the farmer's market every Saturday morning, grinding out his soul for chips of dirty cash.

Marty

2010-04-05T11:54:00.001-07:00

There once was a man who lived in Kitchener/Waterloo named Martin Tarback. It is my understanding that he led a pretty regular life until he fell under the crushing weight of schizophrenia in his mid-twenties. From that point onward, Marty's life was never the same. He became paranoid and alienated himself from everyone until he eventually ended up living on the streets. His family begged and pleaded with him tirelessly to accept professional care, but for whatever reason, Marty refused.

Growing up, I saw Marty all over Kitchener/Waterloo. He was pretty hard to miss with his blackened, filthy parka, torn clothes falling off of him, a mane of massive dreadlocks and piercing blue eyes. I was always intrigued by Marty. He kept to himself and didn't say much. Every time I offered to get him some food, he'd always ask for chocolate milk. Marty built himself a bit of a reputation around town as a truly kind-hearted individual. He'd share what little he had with others living on the streets and was never known to be violent or hurtful. The police left him alone and because of this he was able to get away with sleeping in various warm places around downtown during the winter months.

In the summer of 2008, I sat with Marty on a sunny afternoon. We talked a little, but he had an injury in his mouth that kept him from speaking very much. We drank chocolate milk together and I snapped a portrait of him. That was the last time I sat with Marty, and in March of 2009 he was dead. The mouth injury was actually a tumor. Marty had died of cancer.

The St. John's soup kitchen held a memorial service for Marty, that brought out members of the community from all walks of life. The building was filled beyond capacity. Judges sat beside hobos and everyone had nice things to say about Marty, the gentle, dreadlocked hero of our streets. Many tears were shed, even by those who had never really known him at all.

In early March, Marty came into my mind. This prompted me to check the date of his death and found that the one-year anniversary was about a week away. I decided to do something to remember him and teamed up with a local artist named David to get the job done. He suggested we do an ink transfer process where you put laser prints directly against wet latex paint and the image leaches onto the wall. You put the prints ink-side-down against the wet paint, let it dry and then wipe away the paper using water and friction. What David neglected to mention was that the process is extremely tedious and time-consuming and he had never attempted it with anything much larger than a square foot.

I made a tiled 4x6 foot print of the portrait I had taken of Marty, so it was a bit larger than life-size. David and I taped the images together and applied the print to a construction wall that was directly across the street from Kitchener City Hall. The printing, taping, painting, applying went well. Then came the removal of the paper. We began to wet the paper and wipe it away little by little. For hours and hours we brought a ghost back to life as passers-by stopped to comment and share their stories and memories of Martin Tarback. In total, we spent about four or five hours wetting and wiping the print. My hands were numb and I was covered in paint and paper, but it was well worth it. The whole process felt really magical and seemed to bring a lot of positivity out of the community. It was nice to see that Marty had not been forgotten.

The whole process is documented below. Gritty texture of the final image is part of the nature of the medium. Personally, I like what it did to the image. To me it seems to look like what I imagine schizophrenia would feel like. In the upper right corner there is a copy of his obituary from the Waterloo Region Record. His family had it published for the one-year anniversary of his death. David told me that he bumped into Marty's sister at the wall where we had posted the piece. She was deeply moved and wants us to try to cut it out for her. We're working on it.

Here's to free, public art!

(click to enlarge)

NPPA

2010-03-24T10:01:00.000-07:00

I won second place in the Domestic News Picture Story category of the National Press Photographers Association's Best in Photojournalism 2010 competition. Thanks to everyone for their support over the years. This was my first attempt at a long-term project and shooting it all on 120 film with a toy camera made the process extremely difficult. There were countless hours spent walking those streets, shooting, developing film, scanning negatives and learning how to put together a solid edit.

A special thanks for Kelly Park for giving me the toy camera for my birthday, years ago, and helping me to learn to edit.

Portraits

2010-03-22T11:53:00.000-07:00

Take a look at the new portraits section on my website if you have a minute.

NEW Detroit photos

2010-03-07T09:32:00.000-08:00

They've been sitting in hiding for a while, but here are the photographs from my last trip to Detroit. I have already worked a new edit for my website that includes a few of these. It should be up soon.

More B-Slides

2010-03-07T09:23:00.000-08:00

By the request of Mr. Jesse Foster, here are some more B-slides from Detroit. I had the pleasure of letting Jesse loose into my Detroit archive about a month ago. I wanted to get a second opinion on all the photographs that I decided to leave out of the edit. The B-slides you see here and in the previous entry are a combination of our picks from that search. Some of them we agreed upon, some we didn't. Others I like, but they just don't fit the edit... and some are just plain cynical.

Just as before, I'd love to hear your opinions on these images. Enjoy.

Detroit B-Slides

2010-03-06T14:04:00.000-08:00

Here are some rejects from my Detroit work that have never seen the light of day until now. Any and all input on these is welcome and appreciated.

Lang

2010-02-17T14:24:00.000-08:00

the depot

2010-02-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

Down the cracked roadway, beneath a crumbling railway overpass and through an inviting hole in the wall, we found ourselves immersed in darkness. Headlamps warned of pitfalls as my nose raised alarms of asbestos and black mould. We were on the inside now and I once again found my soft, human hands trying to massage warmth and life into Detroit's rusted and frigid iron heart. Her acidic tears tore snags in my clothing as her broken, jagged glass howled to be whole. I had been here many times before. So many times I almost felt as if I were visiting an old friend. Rachael stepped lightly, eyes wide with wonder. Her fingers drifted over a sliver of wall, scarred and abused by spraypaint and blunt, implements of destruction. True rage had been inflicted upon Michigan Central Depot. This massive structure, a testimony to affluence, confidence and finally obsolescence, now stood hollow; a skeleton of concrete and steel, watching over southwest Detroit in pained silence. Millions of pages from thousands of books flapped desperately for our attention as the wind sailed through the bones of this old train station. With the last "all aboard!" called over two decades ago, the depot looked more like it had seen a violent and convincing apocalypse. Here I felt perfectly at home, as if I were giving Rachael a tour of my new apartment. Here is the bedroom, this is the kitchen, the toilet is just past the marble mosaic foyer with the 60-foot vaulted ceilings that are crumbling to pieces, you have to jiggle the handle a little bit. Oh, watch out for the booby-trapped drug stashes.

cookin' up the funk

2010-02-17T12:51:00.000-08:00

Minimalism has been an important part of nearly everything I do (especially photography) for the past 7 years or so. Over the last year, I have also learned the value of taking things slow. I suppose it makes sense that I still shoot film and enjoy the task of processing it by hand. Thankfully, my good friend AJ also shares these values. This past weekend we decided to meet up with our respective bags of neglected film, whip up a three-course batch of toxic soup, crack a few cheap beers and get messy. That evening really has me thinking of just how commodified the photograph has become in our digital age. I have noticed that if I shoot a series of photographs on film and take the time to process it all by hand, my ability to edit and select the strongest group of images improves vastly. Maybe it's just the way I shoot when I don't have the luxury of the display screen, maybe it's the connection I feel through the tangibility of physically bringing the image into existence. Either way, there is a whole lot of minimalism and taking it slow when you deal with film and I like that.

With all that said, the images in this post are digital. That's right folks, digital photos of an analog process. aaarrrrg.

*Photos 7 and 9 by AJ Frick

the JOB

2010-02-16T13:34:00.000-08:00

There seems to be a theme as of late. Young, qualified, passionate souls, full of hope and promise, are being spit from the bowels of post-secondary institutions, penniless and emotionally drained, directly into a filthy bowl with slippery walls. If you asked the painfully talented artist with her shiny new BA in photography or the razor-sharp-socially-aware-double-major research prodigy about their future aspirations of changing the planet, their response may now be decidedly grim.

Nothing like putting four years and tens of thousands of dollars into a selfless field of study and not even being able to find unpaid volunteer work in your field. It pains me to see good, honest talent wasted on organizations who refuse to open their eyes unless you have three extra letters beside your name. I suppose we could all go get a nice unionized jobs down at the local automotive plant. Heck, we may even pick up trades too. Oh, wait... nevermind.

Goodfellas

2010-02-16T13:26:00.000-08:00

Jesse and Larry came by. We had soup and watched movies.

It's always good to see the Lobsters. They're goodfellas.

Agent Orange

2010-02-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

One foggy evening, Rachael and I decided to take our bottle of whiskey for a walk to the local condemned toxic waste site. The following words are from Girlfriend in a Coma, a book that Rachael gave me for Christmas. Her and I have certain things in common. She's the woman I love.

"Let me describe the real estate that remains one year after the world ended: It is above all a silent place with no engines or voices or music. Theater screens fray and unravel like overworn shirts. Endless cars and trucks and minivans sit on road shoulders harboring cargoes of rotted skeletons. Homes across the world collapse and fall inward on themselves; pianos, couches, and microwaves tumble through floors, exposing money and love notes hidden within the floorboards. Most foods and medicines have time-expired. The outer world is eroded by rain, and confused by lightning. Fires still burn, of course, and the weather now tends to extremes.

Suburban streets such as those where I grew up are dissolving inside rangy and shaggy overgrown plants; vines unfurl across roads now undriven by Camaros. Tennis rackets silently unstring inside dark dry closets. Ten million pictures fall from ten million walls; road signs blister and rust. Hungry dogs roam in packs.

To visit Earth now you would see thousands of years of grandeur and machinery all falling asleep. Cathedrals fall as readily as banks; car assembly lines as readily as supermarkets. Lightless sunken submarines lumber to the ocean's bottom to spend the next billion years collecting silt. In cities the snow sits unplowed; jukeboxes sit silent; chalkboards stand forever unerased. Computer databases lie untapped while power cables float from aluminum towers like long thin hairs."

-Douglas Coupland
Girlfriend in a Coma, 1998

2010-02-01T20:30:00.000-08:00

Tim's hands, cracked and abrasive from years of chemical baths at the motorcycle shop, guided the car swiftly and softly through the tundra landscape. The Oldsmobile was showing her age, but the plush bench seats convinced me that this was a good thing. Tim and I were explorers that day, off in search of wonders beyond our most whimsical notions. The apple fritters from the Harriston bakery were the light at the end of our sugar-dusted tunnel. Downy, white puffs of snow parted and broke for our trusty Oldsmobile, methodically navigating the fluffy waters with a steady hum. Snowflakes seem so cute harmless on their own, but in mass they sure can mess with you. I couldn't help but think of a mob of bunnies convening around an innocent bystander, overpowering them with sheer numbers and cuteness, leaving nothing but bleached, white bones behind. The fritters were delicious and the motorboat held true to her course, bringing us home safe, warm and satisfied with our indulgence.

2010-01-20T07:32:00.001-08:00

This is Lisa Willms, my mother. She is a strong woman with crippling weaknesses. I've watched her kick and claw her way through a labyrinth of razor blades and acid, only to collapse and cower in the face of the rising sun. It has been a long line of the highest highs and darkest, loneliest lows. Sometimes, both at the same time. Against impossible odds, my mother has survived hell, but it took its toll. Today, she is a glass skeleton behind a wall of stone. Her presence is loud, she does and says what she wants, but the evening news sometimes proves too heavy for her to bear. At times, reality alone can put her head underwater, but just as sure as those are bad days, she picks up and keeps putting one foot in front of the other until she has her momentum back up again. This is my mother. I've seen her collapsed, red-faced with snot and tears, clawing and screaming at nothing, a frantic, emaciated ghost of her own strength. I've also seen her kick shit through a brick wall with complete confidence and assurance. These are the two sides of Lisa Willms. The good comes with the bad. Thankfully, the last decade has been mostly a good one. We try not to think of the darker years. Now is all we have. My mother is a living testimony to the strength of love, hope and human resilience. I wouldn't change her for the world.

2009-12-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

As memories of the American desert from that morning remained branded into my skull, I looked out in pure disbelief as snow began to fly past. First only on the hilltops, and then all around, filling the rain barrels and hollowed logs, suffocating that familiar yellow line of the road before us.

The daily transition from summer to winter reminded me that we were driving right around the Earth. Our path jutting down through equatorial warmth, before taking a shortcut across the polar ice cap to steal another hotel breakfast. We continued down the only road in existence, the one right in front of us. Endless, rolling hills of white sand passed us as atomic monsters were tested in the desert lakebed flats on the horizon. Deer caught wind of our presence and darted into the trees, their limbs weighed down with pillows of snow. Blackened, sprawling robots coated the nightscape in orange, glowing orbs and flame as they spewed noxious gasses into the evening sky and sucking the blackened blood out of the Texas bedrock. Cows stubbornly stretched their heads through wire fences to reach greener pastures, along soft and peaceful planes of love and silence. Black and brown boardwalks turned to compost under the weight of life as they rotted and decomposed into their moist bayou surroundings. Large and wise, moss-laden trees lined the roadway, beckoning us onward. A vast and impossibly large city glowed in the distance, the centre of the universe was dead ahead. It was time to stop for gas.

The city was huge, but nothing in the face of nature. This was certainly made of iron and brick, fashioned by calloused hands and store bought tools. The accumulation of industrial strength, forced into a small geographic area was impressive. As if the Soviet army had marched into a dead-end alleyway, and rather than stopping, compressed and grew to an impossible density. I walked these alleys, my camera in hand, living out a dream that had once seemed to perfect. Today it was still special to see the centre of the universe, but the feeling of being in the definitive somewhere was not even close to that which came when being absolutely and completely nowhere.

I escaped the urban maze to find a piece of nowhere, but my feet were heavy. My bones were solid concrete, my legs tied together with rubber bands. Two-and-half months of constant travel and exploration will do that to you. Millions of miles became thousands and hundreds, yards became feet, feet, inches and inches began to crawl by at a snail's pace. There I stopped and laid my head to rest on a pillow of brown and red leaves, dried and warm in the sun. I pulled a blanket of moss over my weary and cold shoulders and let the air out of my lungs. As the light faded away from my eyes, I watched the trees turn to silhouettes in front of the impossibly perfect blend of colours in the forest sunset. The Earth's cold hands came to embrace me in rest. The soil and roots surrounded my body, moving and shifting my bones, massaging my heart, cleaning out my senses.

I dreamed about a freight train, its tracks leading to every place I had been, and finally across a bridge with the words "T'was now" impossibly painted upon its rusty ribs in 7-foot-tall letters. The train was bound to stop and slice King Street in two, blocking traffic for as long as possible. The engineer would notice red bricks and a smokestack, fanning the sweet smell of freshly baked bread onto a city I know now only memories. The smell of the bread would be taken in by so many people I loved as they poured their own cups of coffee, enjoyed perfectly honest diner food and laughed at the tabloids. They would spend their time by the Grand River, throwing snowballs at spiritual capitalism and exchanging embraces of gratitude for the love and peace that can only come with being home. All 519 reasons for going home came to me in that sleep and the decision was made. I awoke, brushed the dirt off and bought a bus ticket. It's time.

I love you and I'm coming home for Christmas.

2009-12-17T09:04:00.000-08:00

"Don't touch me."

It's hard to spend three weeks with someone you love. It's even harder to spend three weeks with a stranger. Harder still is to spend three weeks, sharing a minivan with that perfect stranger while improvising your way through the challenges that come with constant travel on a shoestring budget... and I suppose it would be flat out impossible to do that while you're sick and that stranger is on her period.

The first thing I said to Amy Brown when I met her in San Francisco was "don't touch me." I had been fighting that headcold and didn't wish that kind of mucus death upon anyone. Still, despite our unconventional introduction, we ended up sitting down to breakfast the following day to discuss her coming to Mexico with myself and the hippie convoy. Just like me, she had left home in search of clarity and adventure.

Three hours later, the Mexican plan began to evaporate and we were left with no idea of what to do. There we sat, in her filthy Dodge Caravan, parked on a rainy San Francisco street, in front of the hostel where we had met less than a day earlier. I said "Grand Canyon" and her eyes lit up just about as fast as the ignition turned over in her horridly neglected vehicle... which was actually surprisingly quick. I didn't know her. She didn't know me. We went anyway.

I said, "If this goes bad and you dump me off, just please have the decency to do it within walking distance of civilization."

The "Grand Canyon" quickly became an American Epic as found ourselves getting along famously.

The rest is history.

2009-12-17T08:48:00.000-08:00

The Canyon:

I stood at the edge of the largest thing I had ever seen. The landscape before me appeared as a painting, an illusion my brain couldn't manage to gestate. This vast expanse, a wound carved into the Earth by the gods, laid out before me in silent protest to my previous notions of just how small a human could be. I sat at the edge, my legs dangling haphazardly out over infinity. The feeling of being so close to something so big drove electricity up through my feet. There I sat, jealously watching the ravens soar through an inconceivably large beauty.

2009-12-09T21:29:00.000-08:00

Sin City:

I went straight from the Devil's Cornfield to Sin City and walked wearily down the spinal cord of the American Dream. I watched the blackened, gelatinous lumps of rotting flesh slip from its bones in the form of perfect teeth and gigantic asses. Blue-haired bags of lipstick and yellowing, wrinkled flesh, chugged pints of quarters as life and death were bought and sold in five dollar increments. As the slots rolled, the skin of the dream blew away like dead leaves, filthy dollar bills in a teenage, heroin addict's g-string as she danced on Satan's lap for her next fix.

We slipped out the backdoor of this pandemonium, and once again I found myself standing in the desert. My boots crushed brittle and dusty bones as I took three soft steps toward the setting sun. An endless expanse of cracked Earth, punctuated with alien vegetation lay before me. I dragged my tongue across my sandbox mouth, taking its dryness as understanding that I too am vulnerable to the slow and steady grind of death in this place. As the giver and taker of life slunk into the sand, we took off. Like a bat out of hell, our filthy bullet shot across the sandy plains, faster than fast with ghosts chasing us east. The howl of the land came to full steam as we moved beyond the end of nothing, barreling toward something.

2009-12-09T21:04:00.000-08:00

The Broiler:

My first brush with the American Dream came in the late evening, somewhere in god-forsaken rural California. Twin robots slid swiftly apart, allowing me entry, opening the gates to a fluorescent oasis. Dusty, warped speakers delivered a steady drone of uninspiring auditory pablum as the lone stock girl stacked cans of Jose's Jalapeno and Cheese cup-o-soup and Wolf Chili (now without beans). Like Mexican immigrants, clinging to freight trains, giant dust bunnies rode a parade of nicotine-painted ceiling fans above us. Bound for glory. There I stood, face to face with Kristi. Three screaming children at home, 20 hours of sleep in three days and double-graveyard shift insomnia. She looked the kind of tired one might look if they killed elephants for a living with their bare hands. Eyes heavy with bags of coal, she dragged my cans of chili of the laser-beam eyes of the CIA robot between us. I took a step back to watch the whole system work flawlessly. It's quite a brilliant machine, really. Real people go in one end and no beans chili comes out the other. I wished there was something I could do to help, but I said goodnight and moved fast. The last stretching tentacles of the concrete octopus were here.

The coastal landscape of botox and thousand-mile smiles gave way to crumbling hills and dusty plains, pierced with ribbons of steel, that once tied the dream together. Ghost towns would rise from the dust and moan as they passed. Their pastel boxes and campervan bones a stark contrast to an already stark horizon. Each box was a family, a dream that had broiled away under the desert sun. Withered, writhing floorboards groaned under my boots as I stepped into one of the many mausoleums on 3rd Ave. I watched the ghost children play soldiers and set up lemonade stands as the scrappers stole all the plumbing from their homes. Lording over this crater of existence was "the plant". A robotic mountain with one purpose and one purpose alone: to make money. It sucked railcars full to the brim with blood, sweat and tears into its gut and spewed clouds of acidic, lifeless skyscape from its stacks. The children turned and tumbleweeds, drifting in in the breeze of defeat as the immeasurable weight of progress rolled over them, crushing their bones into grains of sand and filling the cracks in the dried lakebed flat.

The man told me about "the plant" with a lump of dust in his throat, then gestured in the direction of Death with his hook hand. Its tarnished chrome finish still twinkled under the intense gaze of the sun as it bore down on us relentlessly. He was a survivor.

The dry and arid skin of god whizzed past. A hairy forearm, dirty and red from a lifetime of thankless outdoor labour. The powerlines and wire fences held hands for miles, keeping us all contained and in hooked in. The mountains beamed an energy unlike those of the coast. Rather than a wise and stoic silence, they screamed with urgency. They cried with emotion so intense, it could not be named or put into word and sound. I felt their energy around me as we sailed through this frontier, leaving a 30 foot ghost of dust and a yellow line in our wake.

And as the sun began to set over the rozor-backed horizon, I climbed a pile of rock to take a long, hard look at what wasn't there. I had reached the end of things and the beginning of nothing. There it was, a complete and endless ocean of emptiness. Still and silent. There were no stereos, wigs, makeup or credit. No disease, pain or life. There was only a lack of existence in this place, so pure and so overwhelming that the ring in my ears began to seem like seem like a mob of screaming 15-year-old girls as my brain tried to comprehend and lack of everything all around me. This nothingness continued for what seemed like forever and I was grateful to be in the middle of it, to exist in a place devoid of all else.

2009-12-09T19:55:00.000-08:00

The Bay:

As I stood in a silent pocket of night, amidst the stench of California, I looked out over the water to see a very large bridge. In this moment I felt satisfied, not only for having come so far and hitting my mark, but also to be alone. My heart was full of love both for those around me and for myself. For the first time I was both alone and content in the same moment. I thought this is beauty. It can't be bought or sold, it ain't young, it ain't old. You won't find it in your grocer's freezer and not in no glossy magazine neither. It ain't bein' chopped in your uncle's kitchen and it's not in front of your TV, eatin' and sittin'. It don't come out the tailpipe of your car, you can't order it here or mail it far. It's not in no salesman's pitch, no fancy buttons, not one stitch. Beauty don't sit, stand, or kneel. It don't do nothin' but feel. It's buried in the moment, under things and stuff, gasping for air, waiting for you to call my bluff.

...and with that I went and found my home within a jungle of smut and excess. A worn out old hotel, crammed to the rafters. You could practically see the semen caked to any given surface as you staggered through its narrow corridors. The building never slept. Tried and true rock and roll clichés reverberated through the tin ceiling of the grand hall and into the pine walls of my rest. I cursed that party as I battled one bastard of a head cold. It seemed as if fluids came out of my face just about as quickly as I could drink other ones back in. This kept up for four days, and then I saw an out.

The plan was to catch I ride down into Mexico, with some sort of hippie convoy. I stood on this island of a plan, floating in the San Francisco bay, waiting. The details became fuzzy and solid ground turned to mist. I jumped off that cloud and into a van with a woman I had never met. We drove east and I was happy to do so.

There was no introductions, no plan, no destination, no goal. We just wanted adventure. The American Dream.

2009-11-24T01:03:00.001-08:00

The Hole:

I stood today in the belly of hell. Two-foot-thick concrete walls, lined with a charming coat of red oxidisation. I could see the devil's ribs, one for each passing day, carved into my surroundings by desperate, clamy, weak hands, at the end of their line. If time could be caged, this was certainly the place. Each and every inch of the day's 24 hours slunk into the corners of this box of hate, straining to grasp playful rays of light as they danced the line between truth and insanity. This was the hole, where bodies were only released after their souls had truly died.

If you can read this, you are free.