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Ron Galella

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Present-day Chicago is not Harlem in 1979. Present-day Harlem isn’t even Harlem in 1979. But at the Art Institute of Chicago’s new exhibition Dawoud Bey: Harlem USA, some things have stayed the same. The show comprises the 25 original prints from Bey’s noteworthy 1979 exhibition of the series at the Studio Museum in Harlem, plus five previously unpublished prints from the same era.

Dawoud Bey

Smokey, 2002

The impetus for Harlem USA, which was made throughout the 1970s, was Bey’s visit to the Harlem on my Mind show at New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1969; it took him ten years to start and finish the work. And although the images in the show don’t superficially resemble Bey’s later work—they are small, made with a handheld 35mm camera, impromptu and monochromatic, unlike the later work seen at right—the photographer says that the series contains the seeds of his later work. “They gave me my initial sense of how to engage people in front of the camera,” Bey told TIME in an email. “I first learned how to translate the physical experience of the human subject into compelling photographic form during the years I spent making pictures in Harlem.”

He is not the only one who sees the thread running through his work. Matthew Witkovsky, a curator at the Art Institute of Chicago, says that some artists show from their first work a strong sense of who they are and what they want to do. Bey, according to him, is one of those lucky people.

Dawoud Bey

A Boy in Front of the Loews 125th St. Movie Theatre, Harlem, NY, 1976

And Witkovsky says that the photographs, though they remain unchanged, are still fresh. “[Bey] managed to take that ability that cameras have to give you total specificity and imbue it with some kind of other-time-other-place quality,” he says, pointing out an example: in Bey’s picture of a boy outside a movie theater, seen at left, the clothes are quintessential 1970s but the pose is a classic contrapposto. “It’ll always be timely,” says Witkovsky, “because it’s a little bit out of time.”

Bey, who now lives in Chicago, says the photographs themselves are not the only constant. “My feelings about the work haven’t really changed,” he says. “I am still concerned with trying to make resonant photographs of ordinary people.”

Dawoud Bey is a Chicago-based photographer and professor. See more of his work here.

Dawoud Bey: Harlem USA will be on view at the Art Institute of Chicago from May 2 – Sept. 9. The Renaissance Society in Chicago will also present a retrospective of his work, entitled Picturing People, which includes the later work featured in this post, from May 13 – June 24.

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Most of us weren’t drifting over Manhattan at an altitude of 243 mi. (390 km) on March 11 at 8:09 AM, but Anatoly Ivanishin and the other crewmembers of the International Space Station were. Ivanishin had a camera with a 1,200 mm lens in his hand and he snapped this image of what he saw below. It was a Sunday morning, so the streets were quiet—though that kind of detail would not have been discernible from orbit. The skies were clear, however, and that was what allowed such a detailed, almost pointillist portrait to be captured. The picture is taken with north at the left, and as you get your bearings, other landmarks become clear. Central Park is the long grassy rectangle in the middle of Manhattan. The waterway at the bottom is, of course, the Hudson River, with Hoboken and the other towns of eastern New Jersey lining the shore. The LaGuardia Airport runways are visible at the top of the image near the left side.

Most poignant—if least conspicuous—are the sawtooth shadows extending from the southwest edge of Manhattan into the Hudson. The longest tooth of them all is cast by the new World Trade tower, which on April 30, the same day NASA released the image to TIME, once again became the tallest building in New York. The Empire State Building, which regained the crown on Sept. 11, 2001, now trails the new building—which stands at 1,271 ft. (387 m)—by 21 ft. (6.4 m). The World Trade tower will get much taller (and the shadow will get much longer) still, when it finally tops out at 1,776 ft. (541 m) sometime next year. The decade-old wound in lower Manhattan has not completely closed, but it’s close—and even from space, that healing shows.

Correction: an earlier version of this post identified the astronaut who took this photograph as Don Pettit.

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May 1 marks International Worker’s Day, and this year Occupy Wall Street and other OWS-friendly groups are planning a day of action with events in cities around the United States. The plans cover a broad spectrum of protest activities, but one thing is sure to be shared by all: wherever there’s a protest, someone is going to try to take a picture of it; New York City’s South Street Seaport Museum, located near Wall Street, is currently exhibiting photographs, including the one seen here, of Occupy protests. But some of those photographers will, if the past is any indication, get arrested.

According to Jay Stanley, who runs the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) project on photographers’ rights, the rising number of arrests is not in photographers’ imaginations: hostility between photographers and the police actually is becoming more common, even though American law guarantees the right to photograph in a public place. Occupy protests have been a consistent source of that tension.

Photojournalists, particularly freelancers, can encounter an extra layer of scrutiny. Mickey Osterreicher, a lawyer on the National Press Photographers Association (NPPA) advocacy committee, says that professionals with obviously high-quality equipment can be targeted, even though the press legally has as much of a right to be in and photograph public places as everyone else does. Especially since the 2011 federal case of Glik v. Cunniffe, in which the court found that a Boston man was not guilty under anti-wiretapping statutes for having videotaped an arrest with his cellphone, the right to photograph the police has been firmly established. Although whether or not the police can look at one’s photos is in the process of being tested in court, police cannot seize a camera without reason. But those legal rights don’t necessarily translate to smooth experiences on the ground.

Beyond knowledge of the law and professional conduct—which means not breaking any other laws, such as trespassing statutes—there’s not much a photographer can do in advance to prevent that kind of hassle. “If you’re arguing with somebody who’s got a badge and a gun, usually you’re going to lose that argument right then,” says Osterreicher, who notes that a photographer’s best recourse usually comes later, in court—which is why it’s helpful to continue to record audio and video, if possible, to preserve a record of one’s interaction with the police.

There are several resources available for photographers who encounter trouble with the law. Here are just a few:

  • Websites like Carlos Miller’s Photography is Not a Crime keep track of the latest developments and news about the topic.
  • NPPA photographers who encounter trouble with the law can reach out to the association’s legal advocacy committee.
  • The ACLU maintains an extensive website to help photographers stay aware of all their legal rights and options—and they also helped with the video posted below.

Osterreicher and the NPPA are working with law enforcement agencies to educate officers about photographers’ rights, with particular attention on avoiding conflict at this year’s upcoming political party conventions. Stanley is also hopeful that, with education, the relationship between police officers and photographers can become a productive one. “I’m optimistic that professional police officers around the country will come to understand that this is a necessary check and balance, and a necessary freedom in a free society,” he says.

The Occupy Wall Street photojournalism exhibition is on view at the South Street Seaport Museum in New York City through July 8.

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May 1 marks International Worker’s Day, and this year Occupy Wall Street and other OWS-friendly groups are planning a day of action with events in cities around the United States. The plans cover a broad spectrum of protest activities, but one thing is sure to be shared by all: wherever there’s a protest, someone is going to try to take a picture of it; New York City’s South Street Seaport Museum, located near Wall Street, is currently exhibiting photographs, including the one seen here, of Occupy protests. But some of those photographers will, if the past is any indication, get arrested.

According to Jay Stanley, who runs the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) project on photographers’ rights, the rising number of arrests is not in photographers’ imaginations: hostility between photographers and the police actually is becoming more common, even though American law guarantees the right to photograph in a public place. Occupy protests have been a consistent source of that tension.

Photojournalists, particularly freelancers, can encounter an extra layer of scrutiny. Mickey Osterreicher, a lawyer on the National Press Photographers Association (NPPA) advocacy committee, says that professionals with obviously high-quality equipment can be targeted, even though the press legally has as much of a right to be in and photograph public places as everyone else does. Especially since the 2011 federal case of Glik v. Cunniffe, in which the court found that a Boston man was not guilty under anti-wiretapping statutes for having videotaped an arrest with his cellphone, the right to photograph the police has been firmly established. Although whether or not the police can look at one’s photos is in the process of being tested in court, police cannot seize a camera without reason. But those legal rights don’t necessarily translate to smooth experiences on the ground.

Beyond knowledge of the law and professional conduct—which means not breaking any other laws, such as trespassing statutes—there’s not much a photographer can do in advance to prevent that kind of hassle. “If you’re arguing with somebody who’s got a badge and a gun, usually you’re going to lose that argument right then,” says Osterreicher, who notes that a photographer’s best recourse usually comes later, in court—which is why it’s helpful to continue to record audio and video, if possible, to preserve a record of one’s interaction with the police.

There are several resources available for photographers who encounter trouble with the law. Here are just a few:

  • Websites like Carlos Miller’s Photography is Not a Crime keep track of the latest developments and news about the topic.
  • NPPA photographers who encounter trouble with the law can reach out to the association’s legal advocacy committee.
  • The ACLU maintains an extensive website to help photographers stay aware of all their legal rights and options—and they also helped with the video posted below.

Osterreicher and the NPPA are working with law enforcement agencies to educate officers about photographers’ rights, with particular attention on avoiding conflict at this year’s upcoming political party conventions. Stanley is also hopeful that, with education, the relationship between police officers and photographers can become a productive one. “I’m optimistic that professional police officers around the country will come to understand that this is a necessary check and balance, and a necessary freedom in a free society,” he says.

The Occupy Wall Street photojournalism exhibition is on view at the South Street Seaport Museum in New York City through July 8.

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When Binh Danh was a child he noticed the impression of objects left on a grass lawn over time. This observation, combined with an early fascination with science and a personal legacy of war—Danh immigrated to the States as a child refugee from Vietnam—would later coalesce into the series of images for which he is most widely known. Danh appropriates iconic images of the Vietnam War and prints them on organic material such as leaves and grass, using a unique printing process he calls Chlorophyll printing. The images—ethereal and fragile, endowed with a sense of heart-wrenching loss—speak poetically of memory, impermanence and the remnants and aftermath of war.

April 30th marks the 37th anniversary of the fall of Saigon, the official end of the Vietnam War. For Danh, a Vietnamese American, the legacy of that conflict is complex and profoundly personal: photography is his means to connect with the painful shadows of that legacy by empowering a narrative that grounds him in his own identity. “It’s something that my parents I think want to talk about, but it’s difficult for them to communicate because they have such a direct relationship to what happened,” he says.

The artist uses two different processes to create his images. The first resembles traditional black and white printing where a negative is placed on a living patch of grass or leaf. Like the imprint of a hose on a green lawn, light-blocking material removes the green chlorophyll pigment from organic matter. The image transfers when the dark portions of the negative block light, removing the pigment, while the transparent sections keep the underlying portion of the grass or leaf alive. In the second method, grass is cut and layered on a board to form a canvas onto which the artist projects a positive. The clear part of the transparency that lets sunlight through gets washed out, forming an image.

In an ode to the impermanence and fragility of memory, it is impossible to chemically fix the photograph like a silver gelatin print. The artist recommends pressing the material in a book to retain color, and displaying and storing them away from direct sunlight. However, Danh takes this a step further and casts his work in resin, which, for him, becomes a way to preserve the leaf to hold onto that memory. “I feel that when we forget about the memory of war, war can happen again,” he says. “And of course in this country we forget very quickly.”

Binh Danh is an artist presented by Haines Gallery in San Francisco and Lisa Sette Gallery in Scottsdale, Ariz. See more of his work here.

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In a Republican primary season that saw changing frontrunners, surprise defections and shifting poll numbers, there was one constant the public could count on: Callista Gingrich’s perfectly-coiffed, platinum blond bob, with its signature swoop to the left. The interest in her hair was also constant—a pollster for the Gingrich campaign told the New York Times that the candidate’s wife was asked about the look “at every stop” on the campaign trail.

The interest is predictable at this point, as politicians and their spouses have come under increased scrutiny for their hair choices in recent years. From Hillary Clinton’s ponytails and headbands to Michelle Obama’s pinned back updo for a 2009 event, every departure from a public figure’s normal hairstyle creates a media stir. Which is why Gingrich’s consistency was so remarkable.

George Ozturk of Washington’s George Salon at the Four Seasons, which Callista Gingrich used to frequent, describes her hairstyle as an updated 1970s bob. “Only in this country would a potential president’s wife’s hairstyle get so much attention,” says Ozturk, who has styled Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright and King Abdullah II of Jordan, among others. “But it has become so well-known that to change it now would be a big mistake for Mrs. Gingrich.”

Paul Ramadan, a hairstylist at Washington’s Nantucket Hair Salon who previously worked with former Second Lady Lynn Cheney, says that, in general, women tend to get picked on more than their male counterparts for their beauty and sartorial choices. “Callista’s hairstyle is not typical—it could be a little more contemporary, but I think this is how she likes it,” Ramadan says of the heightened awareness of the look. “It’s a nice bob, but Mrs. Cheney and Mrs. [Laura] Bush just blended in more.”

With Newt Gingrich leaving the presidential race, LightBox looks back on Callista Gingrich’s now-famous Swoosh.

More photos: Newt Gingrich’s Life in Pictures

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In many ways, Yida is the South Sudan of popular imagination. Small Cessnas, ferrying medicine and other essential supplies, land on a tattered airstrip lined with beleaguered faces. The sprawling landscape is scorched and unforgiving. What little vegetation existed has been slashed and used by the camp’s more than 20,000 inhabitants to build basic shelters. Modest huts, made entirely of wood and thatch, dot a landscape that seems wholly unfit for human settlement.

The refugee camp in Yida rests approximately 18 miles south of the new and contested border between Sudan and South Sudan. To its north lies the embattled state of Southern Kordofan, where southern-aligned rebels wage a bitter and protracted insurgency against the northern government. In recent months, northern forces, operating under the command of Sudanese President Omar Al- Bashir, have employed brutal tactics to suppress the rebellion to no avail. An indiscriminate campaign of aerial bombardment has forced a mass exodus of Nuba civilians, more than 100,000 of whom have taken refuge in camps like Yida.

As fighting in Southern Kordofan and other adjacent border regions intensified in recent weeks, aid agencies in Yida reported a sharp rise in the number of new arrivals. Many come by foot, having walked for days to escape the high altitude bombers that have become a hallmark of the war. While Yida offers relative security, its extremely isolated location creates concern among aid agencies over their ability to provide adequate services for the rapidly swelling population. Food and water are scarce, electricity and phone networks are non-existent and political dynamics within the camp are contentious and secretive. The impending rain season threatens to turn the camp into a muddy and chaotic bastion of want and disease.

During the week I spent in Yida and neighboring camps, during which I provided visual media support for an Amnesty International research mission looking into wide-ranging human rights concerns in the area, I experienced alternating waves of inspiration and dismay. In nearly three years of covering South Sudan’s precarious transition to independence, I have yet to encounter a more welcoming, perseverant and intellectually driven community as the one I found in Yida. Despite dire circumstances, I met countless individuals who maintain an awe-inspiring thirst for education, a pursuit that many view as paramount in the battle against injustice and the marginalization of the Nuba people. Tea, coffee and assistance are offered at every turn and dignity defines the social landscape.

While their lives and aspirations have been compromised by this conflict, the mood among Yida’s refugees remains defiant. Many express support for the transformation of the Sudanese government, through forceful means if necessary, in order to bring about a system that more aptly embraces the country’s profound ethnic and racial diversity. “I ask myself why, for centuries, [the northern government] has been pushing us down,” wondered Issac Malak, a refugee from Southern Kordofan who arrived in Yida with hopes of finding employment. “There is no justice in Sudan…and I think of getting back my rights by all means that I have.”

With fighting in Southern Kordofan raging on and rains set to arrive in the coming weeks, the situation for refugees in Yida and other border camps is extremely precarious. “We pray for strength and peace,” says Abdul Rahman, a pastor in one of Yida’s six parishes. When I attended his service last Sunday, the pews of his thatch-roofed church were filled people who sang in tones that seem to put hope ahead of sorrow.

Pete Muller is a photographer based in South Sudan. He was named LightBox’s 2011 Wire Photographer of the Year. See more of his work here.

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The Overseas Press Club of America has just announced the winners of its annual awards. LightBox presents the work of the photojournalists who were honored by the OPC, and who will be further recognized tonight at the organization’s gala.

The Robert Capa Gold Medal Award for “photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise” went to André Liohn (EPA/Prospekt) for Almost Dawn in Libya. Read more about the project here on LightBox.

The Olivier Rebbot Award for “best photographic reporting from abroad in magazines or books” went to David Guttenfelder (AP) for his work in Japan. Read more about Guttenfelder’s work here on LightBox. Sebastian Liste (Getty) and TIME’s Yuri Kozyrev (Noor) received citations for their work.

The John Faber Award for “best photographic reporting from abroad in newspapers or news services” went to Pete Muller (AP) for his work in Eastern Congo. Muller was also named 2011 Wire Photographer of the Year by LightBox; read more about his work here. David Guttenfelder received a citation for his work.

The Feature Photography Award went to David Guttenfelder for his work inside North Korea. Todd Heisler (The New York Times) and Stephanie Sinclair (VII) also received citations.

The Overseas Press Club has, since 1939, been an association of journalists working in the United States and around the world. Read more about the organization here.

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Rather than see the city of Changsha fall into Japanese hands during World War II, Chinese Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek decided to burn the entire city to the ground in 1938. Out of the destruction, Changsha, now a metropolis of six million, has risen from the ashes.

Photographer Rian Dundon spent the last six years creating a gritty black-and-white exploration of people living and making their way in Changsha, as well as Hunan, in a geometrically evolving civilization. A dizzying place, where “bit-players in the unfolding epic of China’s development” deal with forces beyond their control, he says.

Dundon describes Changsha as “Blade Runner meets Brooklyn: a sprawling warren of ad-hoc concrete, grand boulevards and neon dreams laced with an energy that made me dizzy.” After six years living and working in China, the photographer has begun composing a book dummy and is selling advance copies via emphas.is to help fund its publication.

The photographer originally moved to China thinking it was only a yearlong commitment, tagging along with his then-girlfriend who had landed a position teaching English for Princeton University. Living in China subverted Dundon’s imagination, and he found himself surprised by the disparity between what he had envisioned and what he actually found. “I had expected something more exotic, more foreign,” he says. “My notions of China were of a place removed from the rest of the world.”

Dundon began to learn Mandarin in the city’s pool halls, counting balls in Chinese, and practicing his language skills with local billiards sharks and spectators. He befriended a liquor salesman and a bar owner who introduced him to a grittier side of the city’s nightlife. By day, he explored Changsha, soaking in the rhythm and the texture of the place. “I did my best to absorb everything, every bit of local language or news or culinary offering. And I photographed, always photographed. Only now I wasn’t just a visitor or a journalist,” he says. “Without a story to cover or a deadline to meet, I consigned myself to the sensuality of living, engaging with the people I met and staying open to different modes of experience,” Dundon wrote in his project outline.

“After one year I knew I had only scratched the surface. There were so many layers to dig through. And there’s no way to rush this kind of thing,” Dundon says. Despite the fact that his girlfriend left after a year, Dundon ended up staying in China for six.

Rather than take a traditional journalistic approach, Dundon photographed in a more experiential way. In his work, Dundon found himself “trying to maintain a continuous sense of personal narrative in my work—a unifying perspective. In China I was more interested in atmosphere and attitude than a strictly defined subject or story,” Dundon says. “And I had to accept the fact that I knew nothing. That only by staying open to different tracks of experience would I be able to produce something honest. I needed to give up control. Allow myself to be led.”

In Changsha, Dundon befriended a crew of funeral planners, cemetery consultants and speculators. “The death business is booming in China. Most of them were young kids fresh out of college who kept a canny sense of humor despite the somber surroundings,” he says. Despite the growth opportunities in the industry, these ambitious youths were stuck in an odd interstitial area, between the cultures of both ancient and modern China. The power and presence of sprits and ghosts is still respected by many Chinese, and for this group, that meant keeping their work secret—save for a small cadre of family members and friends. “Most people don’t want to get close to someone who spends their days with the dead. And that shared experience of exclusion was the glue that bound their tightly knit group together.”

Dundon took a trip home to rural Liling County with one of his Changsha confederates. “He told me that nobody in his village could know what he really did for a living.” Dundon says. Despite his success in the city, “he was still forced to lie about his job when he went home for holidays. After tasting city life he said he could never move home again.”

Rian Dundon is an American photographer. See more of his work here.

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