On February 10, 2014, George Boston Rhynes visited my home and we spent the afternoon discussing the heated topics of the day, world events, politics, religion, history, social media/marketing/strategy, racism, rumors, gossip, opinions, books, journalism, cameras, downloading, piracy, software, video editing, documentaries, strategies…
For hours, we were neck-and-neck catching up, and gearing up. Brainstorming with Rhynes is becoming one of my most looked-forward-to pastimes.
Stay tuned for the interview with Rhynes I’ve been preparing for now for so long that he’s questioned whether I was just pulling his chain.
Fortunately I corralled him into my home studio for a very brief but successful photo shoot.
To George, whose voice keeps changing even when history just repeats itself.
My father and I would hang out a lot when I was a kid – he’d be driving wide open, window down, brown paper sack with a half gallon of whiskey in the backseat with a cooler packed with ice (I was the bartender). I had my Nikon FM around my neck, his in the backseat, crammed into a battered Tamrac bag.
He had seen this church and wanted me to see it.
As soon as we got back home I rushed to the darkroom (the garage had been converted into a home office and photo lab) and stood there in that pitch black space hurriedly winding the film into its canister before opening the back of the Nikon, then, in a couple of minutes I’d guided the black and white 400 ASA 35mm film onto the stainless steel reel, my fingers feeling along the edges to make sure there were no crimps and everything was smooth (otherwise the whole roll could be ruined, or at least a few shots – usually the best ones).
Then, into the canister of developer I would drop it. This was a daily compulsion. I never went anywhere without my Nikon, and there was rarely a day I wasn’t in my darkroom (and our swimming pool).
This shot of a church surrounded by pines on a lone dirt road in Southwest Georgia was taken before I was ten years-old, and won 4-H DPA awards.
I was a show-off, but it was all my father’s doings. He even gave me a silver pointer that looked like a fancy ball-point pen, which would extend about three feet so that I could use it to be even more annoying when doing my photography demonstrations (I also got First Place because I had huge photos I’d taken and developed myself, while every other kid was stammering over their pinhole camera or their latest pet picture.
I was always ashamed, but not Big Chuck.
I know what the hell he was doing. Now. He was one goddam good time and a hell of a mentor. And a daddy.
Oak Street Extension, outside the tall locked black iron gates of Sunset Hills Cemetery, where Kendrick Johnson was buried in January 2013. Police cruisers parked up on the grassy shoulder and sidewalk, Police Chief Brian Childers conferred with the Johnson family and their attorney, Chevene King. Gates open ordinarily at 7 a.m. but on June 14, 2013 they were to open an hour early to allow the Johnson clan to enter. PHOTO BY ROBIN POSTELL
Photo by Robin Postell
I would go up and hang out while he was on detail and listen to him play. All the deputies around and the bus shop employees would gather round.
Photo by Robin Postell
This photo was used for one of the mag features I wrote about Young. At the time he was locked up in Cook County for a few charges and they would let him play a guitar the deputies would bring up to the bus shop where he worked on detail.