Photographers Blog

Grand Canyon tug of war

By Bob Galbraith

A light dusting of snow has just landed on the farthest peaks of the southwest reaches of the Grand Canyon, viewed from a clear glass, horseshoe shaped skywalk on the Hualapai Indian Reservation in northwest Arizona. Bus loads of domestic and foreign tourists, many arriving from Las Vegas over bumpy dirt roads scraped out of the desert scrub and Joshua Trees of this remote stretch of the American West.

As tourists hurry off the buses and scramble for prime snapshot locations along the rim of the canyon, most make their way along a temporary, covered boardwalk to the polished glass protrusion that provides a view to the snow covered peaks in the distance and the muddy Colorado River flowing below.

Photographers snap pictures of visitors with outstretched arms, all wearing protective slippers as to not scratch the glass. The view is stunning as the canyon and river appear in sight lines below and the white peaks above. Many meander at the top of the horseshoe for the penultimate view and feeling of being suspended in mid-air.

After taking off their protective slippers visitors walk into a large building, which is the foundation of the skywalk and what had been planned as a visitor center, restaurant, gift shop, and additional place to view one of America’s great wonders.

Silent tears within the brothel walls

By Andrew Biraj

“Hashi cannot be sad ever. Sadness is a part of our lives, so we don’t bother with sadness. My parents will not be able to identify me anymore. There is a huge difference between my present appearance and the malnourished look of my childhood. I am healthier than before and fit to serve a lot of customers in a day.” - Hashi (which means happiness), a seventeen-year-old sex worker at Kandapara brothel in Tangail

It was a quieter evening than in hectic Dhaka. The gentle breeze of spring surrounded the cold atmosphere of the small town of Tangail, a town in the north east of Bangladesh. A small walk through a calm neighborhood took me to a place which looked similar to any of the country’s slums.

The bright tungsten lights of grocery shops and the high volume of Bangladeshi pop music from the tea stalls mesmerize the whole area. Between those stalls the alleyways on the other side of wide drains are dark. Following my fixer I suddenly found myself inside one of those narrow lanes, where young girls with heavy makeup and colorful clothes were lined up. The girls of different ages, though mostly teenagers, try to draw the attention of men by laughing, chuckling and pulling their hands.

The party Prince

Suzanne Plunkett

Mar 16, 2012 14:19 EDT

By Suzanne Plunkett

You could be forgiven for thinking photos of Prince Harry’s recent tour of the Caribbean showed the young royal living up to his reputation as a high class carouser. There he was slurping enormous cocktails, dancing the night away and kissing a young woman on the cheek.

Splashed across newspapers and website with headlines like “Prince Harry gets the party started” or “Harry dances in the street,” these images appear to show a boozy extrovert who will take any excuse to shake his stuff in public.

I spent more than a week tailing the third-in-line to the British throne on a whistle stop tour of Belize, the Bahamas, Jamaica and Brazil. Though I photographed him in many of these situations, it was pretty clear Harry isn’t quite the party animal he’s often made out to be.

On tour, at least, Harry is heavily stage-managed. He and his press secretaries know the photographers want to see the “fun” prince dancing and drinking. But whether he wants to be photographed drinking and dancing is another matter.

An accordion for Ablogin

Vasily Fedosenko

Mar 15, 2012 19:24 EDT

By Vasily Fedosenko

To Vladimir Ablogin, it may still seem like a fairy tale, but as he touches his new squeezebox “garmoshka” accordion, which had covered thousands of miles to find him in his dilapidated wood hut, he knows what has happened is real.

I arrived in his run-of-the-mill Russian village in the Smolensk region at Belarus’s border on an early December morning to take pictures of local peasants voting in Russia’s parliamentary election. Looking like it was still from the Soviet era, the election day soon turned into a rare holiday in this backwater settlement, which was until recently prosaically named “Gryaz” (Mud).

Paying little heed to my presence and already warmed up with Russia’s national tipple, a bare-footed Ablogin sat on a bed in his higgledy-piggledy home, playing a traditional Russian “garmoshka” button accordion to amuse his audience of several women and men.

He played his scarred and worn-out folk instrument adroitly, running his fingers down its buttons and squeezing joyous tunes out of its tired bellows. Displaying no avid interest in the vote — now overshadowed by Ablogin’s improvised show — his few spectators quickly ticked their ballot papers and cast them in a portable ballot box standing nearby.

My journey into Syria’s nightmare

By Zohra Bensemra

The contact from Syria called: “Be ready in 30 minutes,” he said. “If you want to go, we have to go now.”

From the moment we left our Turkish hotel near the border, my colleague and I traveled on dirt roads used by smugglers and farmers around Syria’s northern frontier. The highways were busy with soldiers and shabbiha, irregular pro-Assad fighters.

Unlike in Libya, where clear frontlines divided rebels from Muammar Gaddafi’s army, in Syria, frontlines cut through villages and criss-cross farmlands in a treacherous maze. One village might be pro-Assad, the president’s picture hanging in every window, the next a solidly rebel-held town, another a mixture of communities where you could not trust your neighbor.

In Libya, miles divided the warring parties. In Syria, enemies are yards apart. The war is being fought from house to house. Not knowing the local terrain, we were completely dependent on our rebel guides to keep us alive.

Diving, not a sport for wimps

By Stefan Wermuth

I had the opportunity to cover a training session of Britain’s future Olympic diving hopefuls at the Crystal Palace Diving Club in London.

When I arrived the session had already started in a dry diving gym.  It was a room full of trampolines, diving boards, mats and mostly young girls performing somersaults or other flips. “Quicker, quicker” shouted one of the three Chinese coaches.

China’s divers are currently dominating the sport.  They won all the gold medals at last year’s world championships. The British diving club decided to recruit Chinese coaches seven years ago when London won the bid to stage the 2012 Olympics.  Now, 15 of the approximately 460 children in the program are in the top England talent squad.

Batman and I

By Radovan Stoklasa

While reading a newspaper, I saw a photo of a man with a mask climbing a wall to get into an apartment. I thought it was a joke. After a few days I saw a television interview with him. The interview was quite interesting and I decided to meet him and find out whether it was a joke or if it was for real.

Getting out from the car in Dunajska Streda, a city in south Slovakia, I heard a strong male voice say “Hey you!” As I turned around I saw a huge indigenous gypsy. “Wanna see Batman?” he asked. I nodded.

The man endowed with a strong voice cried toward an abandoned house “Batmaaaaannn, Batmaaaaannn” but the response was silence. The huge gypsy came up with a great plan B and called Batman on his cell phone, but he was unreachable. So I left to pursue Batman in the center of the town, where he was supposed to pass his free time. I was wandering through the alleys of the town, asking the locals about the masked man without success; Batman’s cell phone was still dead. After more than one hour, my phone suddenly rang and there was batman on the other end of the line. We set up a meeting.

Zoltan Kohari came to the meeting, a 26 year old man in leather trousers and a cloak, just like the image I saw in newspapers and on television, but without a mask. In the interview he spoke about himself, the town, neighbors, a difficult past, unanswered questions about his family – and his eyes seemed sad. I asked about his role as Batman and a shine returned to his face. With all seriousness he said Batman is a symbol of justice and that he wants to be just and that he is the real Batman (better than the actor in the movie). After a long chat he invited me to tour his hideout.

The place that adults fear

By Toru Hanai

March 11 is here again in Japan.

A year after the tsunami devastated Higashi Matsushima city in Miyagi, seven-year-old Wakana Kumagai visited the grave of her father Kazuyuki with her mother Yoshiko, brother Koki, and her grandparents.

I first met Wakana last April, just weeks after the magnitude 9.0 earthquake and huge tsunami devastated Japan’s northeast Pacific coast. The school year begins in April here in Japan, and Wakana was carrying her new, shiny red school backpack as she visited her father at a temporary graveyard that housed those who died from the tsunami. She gracefully bowed to her dad, showing off her new bag and her dress she wore for the first grader’s ceremony as if she were at a ball, and told him that she just attended her school for the first time. Her graceful bow struck my heart.

The tornadoes March

Reuters Staff

Mar 9, 2012 18:05 EST

By Harrison McClary

1,000 miles

March came roaring in with deadly storms leaving a trail of destruction across the mid-western states. I was covering a Rick Santorum campaign stop when picture editor Bob Strong called to ask if I could head over to Crossville, Tennessee to cover an area hit by the tornadoes the following morning.

I arrived on the scene to find the access road closed. I looked at my GPS and saw a small road that appeared to parallel the main road, so I turned on it and followed until trees blocked the road. I could easily see where the destroyed homes were, so I got out to walk. I climbed over, and crawled under fallen trees and foraged through the mountainous countryside until finally getting to the bottom of the valley. Once there I discovered the road was washed out.

Not long after getting back to my car they re-opened the main road and I headed into the damaged area, photographed the destruction and transmitted from my car.

Two worlds of Purim

Nir Elias

Mar 9, 2012 13:43 EST

By Nir Elias

As an Israeli and a resident of “ultra” secular Tel Aviv for most of my adult life, Purim — the celebration of the Jews’ salvation from genocide in ancient Persia, as recounted in the Book of Esther — has always been a time of partying and dressing up, for me.

Images of Orthodox Jews celebrating Purim were always very familiar. But being present at one of these celebrations was a different experience altogether.

This year I went to photograph the Vizhnitz Hasidic community in Bnei Brak, an ultra-Orthodox city some 7 km (4 miles) from Tel Aviv. The Vizhnitz community members tend to emphasize the joyous gatherings and celebrations commemorated in the Jewish tradition.

When I arrived at their huge hall, it was mostly empty, but within less than an hour it was packed. The atmosphere was welcoming and warm. Thousands stood on grand-stands surrounding the hall and waited for their Rabbi to arrive. When he entered, there was a burst of singing and clapping and one could clearly feel the excitement. They sang songs praising God and emphasizing the importance of being happy during the festival with enthusiasm even though they had fasted the whole day, as is customary on Purim. They also read in unison from The Book of Esther. The atmosphere was electrifying. Looking around, many of them seemed entranced as they joined in to the loud singing and dancing.