Chicago Avenue with a Leica M246 Monochrom

The first day of October began under heavy clouds and the threat of rain for Mr. Gill. He may have been at his home; or at a nursing home; or at a homeless shelter; or under the cover of an awning somewhere along Chicago Avenue. We don’t know. Conversely my day began under the sheets, in a comfortable bed in the Palmer House hotel in the heart of the Loop in downtown Chicago.

Being prepared for the weather

As I threw the sheets aside, I was already eyeing my camera bag. I could hear the rain pounding on the only window that afforded me a view of Chicago. I got out of bed, opened the bag, and pulled out my Leica M Monochrom 246.

With the rain clattering against the window, I wondered what the day would offer. I glanced out of the window and knew it might be a challenge.  I decided to head up Michigan Avenue towards Chicago Avenue.

At about that same time, Mr. Gill knew it would be a wet and chilly morning on Chicago Avenue. As he gathered his plastic crate, he made sure his cardboard sign was safely tucked inside. He pulled his hat on and grabbed his umbrella.

Another start, another long journey

With his crate on his lap, his umbrella wedged between his body and the side of his wheelchair, he put his hands on the wheels. It was going to be a long, cold trip to the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue. He remembered his days as a young man in the U.S. Army and wondered what had gone wrong. How could he even begin to think there was hope for him? Did anyone really care?

A short while later, I saw Mr. Gill sitting in his wheelchair at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue.  At first, I hesitated to take a photograph; I wondered, “does anyone actually care about this man, a veteran, and a human being”?  I made the photograph and headed west along Chicago Avenue.

David and Goliath meet in the rain

A short while later, I found myself sitting in a Starbucks with a steaming, hot latte and a warm blueberry muffin. My Merrill shoes were already soaked from the relentless, morning rain. I reminded myself that I was just a little boy from a small town and Chicago was that hulking giant that writers and photographers have grappled with for so long.

Why should I even begin to think my story would be worth sharing? Who really cared? Here I was in a warm Starbucks and Mr. Gill was still shivering out on the street. My emotions were already raw.  I finished my latte and headed back out onto Chicago Avenue.

Different expectations

I noticed there are a lot of dogs to be seen along Chicago Avenue. And those dogs seemed to have a life that was much better than Mr. Gill and some of the other people I encountered. It occurred to me as I walked along Chicago Avenue that people will routinely do things to one another that they simply wouldn’t consider doing to a dog. I suppose that’s good if you’re a dog — but not so good if you’re a human being.

In 1883 Mark Twain said, “it is hopeless for the occasional visitor to try to keep up with Chicago; she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them.” At the time Twain made this statement, Chicago had only been incorporated as a city for 46 years.

The first permanent Chicagoan

Even for Twain, it must have been hard to comprehend what Chicago had become. Forty-six years earlier, its first permanent settler had been a black man from Haiti. Jean Baptiste Point du Sable had set foot on the western shore of Lake Michigan in the late 1770s and made it his home.

There seems to be a cruel irony that a black man from Haiti was the first permanent settler in Chicago while so many black men like Mr. Gill struggle for survival each day in Chicago, 250 years later.

A street of contrasts and contradictions

I was torn between photographing Mr. Gill, and helping him with his struggle to cross Chicago Avenue. I made the photograph and feelings of guilt and helplessness hovered over me like the dark clouds in the sky.

Of course, homelessness and poverty aren’t limited to one race in Chicago or anywhere else, for that matter — neither is wealth and affluence. There is a strange, eclectic, and powerful mix of wealth, extravagance, poverty and affliction along Chicago Avenue. Every time I see it, I lose track of how I fit into the mix, and get lost in the moment.

I suppose that my getting lost in the moment is why I carry a camera and write these words. In between our worst moments of chaos and our greatest achievements lies an average day. What we do as human beings to get through that day is what defines us.

In all of that, the good and the bad, I can see a beauty in life that perhaps not everyone sees. Beneath the struggle there is still dignity and the will to survive. I saw the beauty in Mr. Gill and this man’s spirit and that gave me hope.

Five stars and a culture of welcoming

The morning clouds and accompanying rain eventually drifted east across Lake Michigan and I found myself in West Town at the Five Star Bar on the corner of Chicago Avenue and Bishop Street. West Town is one of 77 designated Chicago community areas, and was originally part of the city’s Polish neighbourhood. Today it’s a melting pot of cultures and in the throws of significant gentrification.

The Five Star Bar was full of thirsty Chicagoans, and the mood was light and cheery. One thing I’ve grown to love about Chicago is the people and the way they are willing to welcome a stranger. Perhaps it’s a reminder we’re all strangers on a journey together, and we just as well make sure it’s an enjoyable one. That vibe is heavy along Chicago Avenue.

Belonging

It wasn’t long before I felt like I was part of the family at Five Star — the place was full of people and moments that clamored for someone with a camera. As a small-town boy, it didn’t take me long to realise that these folks were a bit different than what I saw growing up.

The diversity was amazing and there was an aura of art and poetry as I watched the West Towners interact. The spontaneity was exhilarating, the moments were ripe for composition, and the light was magical. It was all magical.

Saturday at the Five Star in West Town along Chicago Avenue was life at its best — smiles, conversation, great food and drink, and a contagious zest for life. Feeling refreshed and fulfilled, I left the Five Star Bar and headed back out onto Chicago Avenue.

The open gates we find in life

I walked by a parking lot with an old wrought-iron gate and a lady dressed in black was slowly walking across the lot with her back to me.  I thought she looked like Mary Poppins. She was reading as she walked and never saw me. I realized how lucky I was to be in this place at this moment.

There are open gates in life we step through, and painted lines we cross, that change the fabric of our lives as we unwittingly pass through them unaware of what is yet to come. After making this photograph, I realised I had captured something special.

I wasn’t sure where this lady was heading, but I certainly knew where I had been. As I stood alone along Chicago Avenue, I knew the places I had been, both good and bad, had made me what I was today. I’m a solitary man who appreciates solitary moments, and this was one of them.

Faces wherever you look

Chicago Avenue is full of faces, some painted on walls, and some painted in my mind. All of them have an enduring presence for me. I’m not sure why that is, but I do know it is the reason I’m meant to carry a camera with me and capture such moments.

A younger rider

As I walked along the avenue, I suddenly came upon a young Hispanic boy riding a mechanical bucking horse. His eyes met mine as I instinctively composed the photograph and hit the shutter.

In a flash, I was a little boy on that same horse in front of G.C. Murphy & Sons in Seymour, Indiana. His look of wonder now was my look of wonder back then, and this clash of sudden information in my brain had tears forming in the wells of my eyes and spilling down onto my cheeks.

For in the split second it took to make this photograph, my brain took me on a journey that caused me to see, and smell, and remember that store, that horse, my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, and my siblings in a way that would never have happened, if I hadn’t looked through the viewfinder in my camera.

Acceptance and friendship

As I photographed and interacted with the people along Chicago Avenue, I realized that the diversity I witnessed was overshadowed by the commonality of our mere humanity and wrapped in a wonderful package called acceptance and friendship.

No one seemed to recognise me as a short, white man with a camera that they didn’t know. Nor did I see any of them as simply white, black, Hispanic, Polish, Asian, young, old, male, female, handicapped, or agile. I simply saw them as they saw me — a fellow human being trying to enjoy life to the fullest.

Day’s ending under street lights

With dusk’s last light, pierced by sodium lights, the first day of October may have ended for Mr. Gill. At his home; or at a nursing home; or at a homeless shelter; or under the cover of an awning along Chicago Avenue.

My day ended along the streets of the avenue watching people enjoy life, enjoy one another, and make the most of what life gives them. As the day ended, it dawned on me I had seen more than I could ever have imagined I would see.

Grappling with the city

I had my fill of good food and drink that day. My Merrill shoes that were soaked early on from the relentless, morning rain had long since dried. I reminded myself that I was just a little boy from a small town and Chicago was that hulking giant that writers and photographers have grappled with for so long.

Mr. Gill endured the wet and chilly morning on Chicago Avenue. As the day ended, he gathered his plastic crate and made sure his cardboard sign was safely tucked inside. With his crate on his lap, his umbrella wedged between his body and the side of his wheelchair, he put his hands on the wheels.

A long way home

It was a long trip from the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue to the place he called home. He remembered his days as a young man in the U.S. Army and wondered what had gone wrong. How could he even begin to think there was hope for him? Who really cares? 

As I found my way back to the warmth of the Palmer House, I wondered, who really cares about what I had experienced today?  I know I cared, but I wasn’t sure how I could make a difference.  But I knew I had photographs, and I knew I had a story to tell. 

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More:

About James Rice, books, and exhibitions	Leica M 246 Monochrom
Leica Monochrom: Life in black and white	Middle America: An essay in black and white

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