TatAway Tattoo Day
Phil Marandola stands, noms on a piece of pizza and chats with his sister, Maia, meanwhile his mother Carmen laughs bodily as she shaves Phils lower back.
Phil is getting a tattoo he doesn’t even want, and he is getting it in a place because the irony and hilarity of it is too good to resist. Phil is getting a lower back tattoo, a “tramp stamp” if you will. The message that will be emblazoned above his hiney is not “swipe here” or “mind the gap” but rather TatAway, the name of the business that he, his mother and two sisters have built from the ground up. Their business is laser tattoo removal, now with locations in Boston and New York City.
Today Phil, his mother Carmen and his two sisters Chelsea and Maia are so confident in the quality of the process their PicoSure Laser tattoo removal system achieves that they are all getting TatAway tattoos in order to have them removed -- all for the sake of science of course.
“ We all started kicking around the idea of it as a joke but the idea developed into something. We want to develop case study on different age groups and genders possibly the effectiveness of the Revlite (Qswitched laser) VS. the PicoSure.” explained Phil.
Tattoo removal is a well developed science but also an unpredictable mistress. “There are several variables that factor into the tattoo removal process. The laser breaks down the ink but does not remove the ink from the body. Your body is what in all actuality is doing all the work, if you are really healthy the process will go faster.” Although TatAway has been open for two years and done over 5000 treatments, the team at TatAway is still looking to delve deeper into developing their own specialized knowledge of best practices with the best tools on the market.
It’s easy to see that the team at TatAway is all about serving people. They are all people-people. During the tattoo festivities that were going on in the TatAway office in Boston a client showed up without an appointment. It was no problem for the team. It was as though another friend had popped in for a visit and within minutes Chelsea and the client had donned their protective eyewear for another quick treatment of an upper arm tattoo. Its took longer to prep and numb the area than it did to laser the tattoo. There were no tears and no cries of horror or the smell of burning flesh, it’s insane how quick and efficient the process is.
The most interesting fact about all this is that once the process is done your skin is wiped clear, no scarring, a clean slate. This is why people are coming to TatAway, not just to have a regrettable tattoo removed but also to free up fresh canvas for a master work they will be proud to display in the light of day.
Look Back - The Parisian Bird Market
This flower market has been in the same hallowed spot since 1808, and is usually populated by flora vendors who peddle all varieties of plant life. On this Sunday, though, the floral attractions have been exchanged for fauna, and the myriad colors that line the street now sing, chirp and squawk as they peek out from behind the pinstripes of their confinement. This is a bird monger paradise: welcome to the Sunday ritual that is the bird market at Marché aux Fleurs.
The men here are of the same group you find at car shows, BBQ grill-offs and Magic The Gathering club meetings. They are mostly older white gentlemen who all share a passion for birds. Although the Marche aux Fleurs is a bird market, today, there is not a lot of actual bird selling going on. Occasionally a man with a small child passes through the throng and inquires about buying a parakeet or the infinitely less interesting and more annoying wren. Meanwhile the bird mongers chat excitedly and smoke their cigars and cigarettes. So, for the most part, it’s just these guys and their birds and the occasional outsider like myself who sidles around and gawks.
The atmosphere draws a small but familiar crowd. Most of the market goers are men, many have graying beards and thinning hair. They make small bird-talk as they man their makeshift stands that showcase their tiny dinosaur prisoners. It’s strange to think that these are the descendants of the creatures who once dominated the earth with their giant alien forms, and who now find themselves imprisoned by substantially less impressive and badass evolutionary products of poo-hurling apes. Time, she is a bitch. But I digress.
I am not the only gawking outsider here today, though; from time to time I find myself transfixed by pigeons landing right next to the cages of these birds, peering in as if they’re on tour at the zoo looking at a long lost relative. Does the pigeon sympathize with the plight of the blue parakeet? Is he stopping by to give his condolences, or pass information through the bars like in a TV prison drama? Maybe the pigeon is dropping by to ask how he can get such a sweet gig. I imagine the pigeon asking, "You mean you get free housing and free seed and you never have to worry about being run over, kicked or eaten? What’s the catch?"
“Nothing,” his imprisoned brethren replies, adding in an existentialist tone, “just your freedom.”
Seeing all these birds reminds me of a time I met a large white macaw in a pet shop in the States. I recall a sign under him warning people not to let this macaw touch you. As I approached this large white dino relic, it made eye contact and hailed me, saying a soft and sweet "Hello." It slowly extended a large, leathery foot towards me as if to shake my hand, and as I reached my hand close to its talons, the macaw grabbed my fingers and tried to pull my hand towards its mouth and take a bite out of me. As I quickly drew away, it stared and cackled at me like the Wicked Witch of the West.
As I returned from this old memory, I pondered some troubling parallels. How was it that one being can so rely so heavily on another for support and survival, only to scorn and mock it with such bravado? Must have been a French macaw, I decided.
As I came out of my strange and deluded pondering I spot a bird monger attempting to catch a small wren in a cage, his sausage-thick fingers ambling through the cage in pursuit of a reluctant volunteer. Again I find myself wondering if these little birds ever consider banding together and lashing out at their human jailers. I wonder if Alfred Hitchcock's movie The Birds is an awkward subject amongst this group. I find myself compelled to test the theory, but remember that I speak about as much French as these birds speak Yiddish.
In the end I decide not to make an attempt at setting them free, imagining my own version of animal emancipation inspired by Free Willy. No, instead I simply document this strange scene of possible injustice, so that others may know and be warned -- don’t be a pretty bird in Paris. They’ll put you in a cage and slap a price tag on you.
Vermont Town Meeting Day
Roland Potter, 83, oversees the ballot box as Cora Swanberg casts her first-ever vote on Monday at the Sharon school meeting. I have been coming to town meeting as long as I can remember. I don't have TV so it's better than sitting at home. The past few years I have been becoming more interested." explained Swanberg.
View the entire 2014 Vermont Town Meeting Day gallery here.
I have never seen a higher concentration of people knitting in a public space until today. It is town meeting day, when citizens across Vermont debate and vote on topics we don't think much about the rest of the year. Road projects, trash pickup, and other less sexy aspects of life become the focus of tension and consternation among those gathered in this state’s town halls. At times it is like church, but the religion of God has been replaced by the religion of bureaucratic tradition. And knitting is just another way to pass the time when debate drags on.
I am dressed in what I imagine to be fitting Vermont attire: A plaid shirt, a long brown Carhart jacket and sunglasses with an American flag print covering the frames. I must shoot three town meetings today, two of which start at the same time, 9 a.m. I choose to start out at Strafford’s town meeting. Every year it is held in the historic old town hall building that sits atop a small hill overlooking the green, a public square fenced in by an assortment of homes.
Strafford’s white, wooden town hall is one of the oldest buildings in the town, founded in 1761. It is - 9 degrees outside and it doesn’t feel much warmer inside as I enter with a throng of Straffordians. (I assume this is the proper spelling. Anyone who prefers “Straffordiites,” feel free to speak up.) I introduce myself to a woman handing out name tags just inside and explain I am working with the local newspaper. “Just don’t get in the way, make sure you…” she says, making a hand gesture and trailing off in a search for the right words. “I will make myself small,” I assure her.
Unable to find a seat inside the historic town hall in South Strafford, Becky Proulx took a seat on the floor and knitted as she listened to the proceedings at the Town Meeting in Strafford, Tuesday, March 4th, 2014.
A crowd of about 100 people act as a furnace, eventually warming the room to a bearable level. As it fills to capacity I am scanning for moments and compositions, my brain working to take in this place and its people. Once in a while a bald island sprouts from the ocean of white hair I see around me. Older folks seem to make up the majority of the crowd. Maybe they’re the only ones who can make this event -- their retired lives creating a schedule that allows for weekday morning rituals like this one -- or maybe they’re the ones who most appreciate this tradition, going back more than 100 years.
Greg Lewis raised his hand and waited to be recognized by the moderator, Kurt Albee, in order to voice his views during the long a tenous debate over Article 2, at the Starfford Town Meeting, Tuesday, March 4th, 2014.
But Strafford is just one town among many partaking in today’s meetings, so I make haste for my car and sprint across dirt backroads that snake their way through the hills and woods between Strafford and my next stop, Chelsea. Once there I know I’m close to the action, but am still unsure which historic building is home to this town’s meeting. A young man at the cash register of a general store and a farmer answer in unison when I ask them where the meeting is being held.
“That brick building over there.”
A cadre of older women and young girls selling mountains of baked goods greets me inside Chelsea’s Town Hall. I exchange pleasantries and make my way to a set of double doors, squeaking them shut behind me. Inside, a moderator is droning on about an article -- an issue to be discussed before being voted on. In the back of the room, rugged looking menfolk stand, possibly because sitting is for wimps. Meanwhile, children are sprawled out at the men’s feet playing with iPhones and tablets. A sort of knitting for the next generation. Their way to pass the time comes on a digital screen.
I creep up the stairs to a balcony to get a higher vantage point of the proceedings. A mixture of seniors and youth are haunting this upper level, quietly observing from above and avoiding the din of debate below. I find myself enjoying the elevated position and the angles it provides, being among these ghostly observers in a dusk-like light. As the proceedings carry on, the differences in procedure each town adheres to become apparent.
Hayden Stumpff, 12, stands and watches over the proceedings of the Chelsea Town Meeting "I like town meeting, I find it interesting." said Stumpff. Tuesday, March 4th, 2014.
Here, no one is wearing name tags. Instead their hands are stamped to signify they have signed in, and are therefore allowed to speak and vote. The select board, a group of local officials moderating the discussion, is not sitting above the crowd on a stage like they were in Strafford. Here, they’re on ground level, in chairs facing the townspeople.
It’s an interesting dichotomy between the board members and the crowd. Most of the officials don’t seem happy to be here engaging with the people they serve. They are showing a defensiveness, and a disinterest that makes the atmosphere more adversarial than congenial. But on each board there is a charismatic point man, employing humor in short bursts to counter the seriousness and hostility generated when discussing such seemingly mundane subjects as recycling procedures and the costs of road maintenance.
Chelsea select board member, Michael Button, calls on the expertise of an attendee as Chelsea Town Meeting progresses Tuesday, March 4th, 2014.
Frank Keene, listens intently as a select board member explains how they wish to save for future road projects during the Chelsea Town Meeting, Tuesday, March 4th, 2014. Keene is also the towns Cemetary Commisioner "I am very interested in town affairs. I want to make sure the money is spent wisely."
The point man in Chelsea is a board member. But in Vershire, the next town on my day of documenting bureaucratic tradition, the responsibility of smoothing ruffled feathers is handled by the moderator David Hooke. He is Mr. Charisma.
Vershire’s town hall, where Hooke has been presiding over town meetings for the last 15 years, is a miniature of Strafford’s. With the same woodwork, same white paint, and a similar albeit smaller square spire with a weathervane affixed to its apex, the town hall in Vershire seems close to full with a crowd of about 30 people.
After my third “I’m-here-with-the-newspaper-to-get-photos” introduction, a woman gestures to get the attention of Hooke, a man with a thick beard that small birds could inhabit. “Mr. Moderator, may another member of the press join the meeting?” the woman asks. Meeting attendants turn around to get a look at the press in question -- there will be no being small here.
Vershire Town Moderator David Hooke, reads the description of an article during the Vershire Town Meeting, Tuesday, March 4th, 2014. Hooke has been moderator in Vershire for 15 years. "The most important thing is to keep everyone on board…and having a sense of humor about it." Said Hooke.
The hot topics of debate here are trash and recycling. People raise myriad issues, questions and concerns about all aspects of the subjects. Some sort of consensus is reached and the meeting is adjourned. As I wait to gather names of some of the people I photographed, a few older women introduce themselves and ask me about my affiliation with the paper. They invite me to stay for the after-meeting lunch; I immediately hear the voice of my photojournalism professor at Ohio University, Marcy. “Never take anything the people you photograph offer you.”
This ethical stance has always been interesting to me. As photographers we take so much. We take people’s time, their stories, their moments and make them into something tangible that we slap our name on and make our own. But we’re not allowed to accept their invitations to lunch, or coffee, or a beer after work. At least according to Marcy and scores of other old school photojournalists.
"Bare feet coming though" exclaims Carter, 4, as he gets into the community spirit during his first town meeting by helping move and stack chairs at the Vershire Town meetings conclusion, Tuesday, March 4th, 2014.
I don’t have the heart to say no to these kind people, so I assure them I will take a gander at the lunch downstairs after I get my caption info. Then, I make my escape without notice. Having dodged a free lunch, I think my deception would have made Marcy proud. It’s a strange task to be the eyes and ears of a place and interact with its people so intimately, while also not partaking in some of those rituals of community.
As photographers and journalists we walk a fine line between being an insider and an outsider. Someday I hope to strike the proper balance. But for now, I’ll just have to be satisfied with observing the knitters and the debaters, and documenting life’s moments as they come across my lens.