Joanna Wilbarger
Michael
Blaze, founder of the Veterans in Photography club, sat at a table on
the patio of DC Library Cafe in downtown Los Angeles with his friend and
photography student, Joanna Wilbarger, or as friends call her, Jojo.
The pair shared how photography impacted their lives while living on
Skid Row.
Blaze, who turned 63 in September, founded the club - his first was known as The Skid Row Photography Club- five years ago to help people living on the street find encouragement and inspiration.
“People who live in the downtown area are surrounded by crime and drugs. In our club, we try to create a positive environment, so people can learn photography,” Blaze said. “We are like a family here."
Over the years, the club has periodically received funding from the Downtown Los Angeles Neighborhood Council, which helped Blaze to buy cameras, lighting and equipment.
He also rented a small room in a building at the intersection of Sixth Street and Stanford Avenue, next to the Gladys Park.
The club has 10 homeless students who attend the meetings regularly while living within the 50 square blocks crowded with close to 8,000 homeless people.
Blaze described the main conception of the club as spontaneous and creative. There are no restrictions or formats.
“If people wanted to go and shoot, we did that,” Blaze said. “If they wanted to learn Photoshop, I taught it.”
He also never asked people questions about their past. Blaze said the idea was innovative for a club located on Skid Row.
“Most organizations on Skid Row know everything about you,” Blaze said. “I’ve never asked people their Social Security number or whether they used drugs. In fact, I’ve never asked any personal questions.”
Blaze said he wanted passion for photography to motivate people.
Instead of questions, Blaze offered his students snacks and free cameras.
At first, he expected some people to take the cameras and sell them for drugs and never come back, but he noticed his simple approach did something unexpected.
.JPG)
“Many people took cameras and did fantastic things,” Blaze
said. “Almost everyone came back with new photographs. They all wanted
to tell a story.”
Blaze said some people did portraits and others photographed strange objects. A lot of people took pictures of architecture and landscapes. Women always brought pictures of flowers.
Last year, he said he gave away more than 100 Nikon D 40 cameras.
Blaze said he never kept official statistics on his students, but he saw some members, including Jojo, recovering and growing professionally.
After many members learned how to use the professional cameras and equipment, they created email accounts and started using social media to promote themselves as photographers. Blaze encouraged his students to sell their art online.
“The camera brought people together no matter their cultural background and race,” Blaze said. “It inspired people.”
Still for members like Jojo, photography was more than therapy. She said the club helped her to find the way out of homelessness and destructive past.
Jojo's Story
Jojo, a mother of four, turned 50 this summer, and has spent several years living on Skid Row.
For Jojo, the downhill path that led to a life of homelessness started more than 12 years ago on a quiet fall evening when her oldest son got shot.
That night, Chris, who was 18 years old at the time, was staying at his grandparents’ house in north Compton, Where Jojo grew up.
Chris, a student at Long Beach City College, was returning from his friends’ house where he was working on a school project.
He stopped at the corner of Central Avenue and 133rd Street to chat with two other neighbors when a group of young men approached them.
As the young men asked Chris and his friends what gang they were a part of, Chris noticed one of the strangers pull a nine-millimeter gun from his pocket. The boys started running as the bullets rang.
Chris’ friend was shot in the back and jaw. One bullet touched Chris’ leg, somehow missing a main artery.
When Jojo’s mother called her to say Chris had been shot, she could not believe to what had happened.
“I was like Chris who?” Jojo said. “I just couldn’t believe it was my son. He has never been in trouble.”
All three of the boys survived, including Chris, but it traumatized Jojo's family and schocked the neighborhood.
The shooting sparked a series of anxious and painful years for Jojo, from dealing with the court case to prosecute the shooter, to other family health failures.
In December of 2002, her mother was diagnosed with a rare type of leukemia and a few weeks later, passed away.
In 2006, Jojo’s husband died. Shortly after, her father, a veteran of World War II and the Korean War, was diagnosed with diabetes.
Jojo was left with her parents' medical bills on top of taking care of her four children and paying for her house all on her own.
During this time, Jojo became severely depressed.
“I couldn't even function,” Jojo said. “Everything was so overwhelming.”
She fell behind in paying her bills and soon had to give up her home, but tried to remain optimistic and look at the challenges as an opportunity to start anew.
Several weeks later, Jojo packed up boxes filled with amily memorabilia and put them in a storage.
Jojo’s children were grown-ups and had their own place to live or stayed with friends. Her youngest daughter Samantha moved in with Chris and his girlfriend.
Jojo had nowhere to go.
“You would think your friends said ‘hey stay with us,’" Jojo said. “I had a lot of people who stayed with me at my house, but when I lost my house, nobody ever called me.”
She packed her bag, put it on her green scooter and headed to downtown in search of a place to stay.
There she slept in a friend's car and would occasionally use her friend’s apartment to take a shower.
“Every day, I thought of ways to get by,” Jojo said. “I would go to El Pollo Loco or McDonalds and change my close and get freshened up and start my day.”
Through a friend, Jojo found a Women’s Renaissance program at the Weingart Center on Skid Row.
At the center, Jojo saw an ad written by Blaze inviting photographers of all levels to join the Skid Row Photography club. Jojo said she instantly liked the idea of studying photography.
She came to the first meeting in the beginning of 2011 and remained its dedicated member ever since.
Six month ago, Blaze started a new project, the Veterans in Photography club. Jojo, who is the only female and non-veteran member, announced she was a veteran’s daughter and had all rights to stay. Blaze and other members didn’t object.
Art through Skid Row
Shaded by a red umbrella, Jojo and Blaze sat at the table and shared photos of Skid Row taken with their Nikon D40 cameras and cellphones.
Blaze said he remembered how some members came to the photography club pushing shopping cart full of plastic bags with their only belongings. They would leave their carts by the door in the corner of the hall to join the other photographers. For many, it was the only place where they could relax and step out of their reality.
“That’s how it was for me,” Jojo said. “Blaze really helped me to get out of myself. He allowed me to see that I can be successful again.”
Recently, Jojo started working as a lab technician and moved into her own apartment on Skid Row in the same building where the club meets.
“There are a lot of people (even those I work with) who make comments about homeless people. They don’t understand that people on Skid Row might have special circumstances. They could work but still live on the street," said Jojo.
“If I hear that kind of comments, I tell them my story,” she said. “I think then they become more tolerant.”
(Jojo and Michael Blaze)
“People who live in the downtown area are surrounded by crime and drugs. In our club, we try to create a positive environment, so people can learn photography,” Blaze said. “We are like a family here."
Over the years, the club has periodically received funding from the Downtown Los Angeles Neighborhood Council, which helped Blaze to buy cameras, lighting and equipment.
He also rented a small room in a building at the intersection of Sixth Street and Stanford Avenue, next to the Gladys Park.
The club has 10 homeless students who attend the meetings regularly while living within the 50 square blocks crowded with close to 8,000 homeless people.
Blaze described the main conception of the club as spontaneous and creative. There are no restrictions or formats.
“If people wanted to go and shoot, we did that,” Blaze said. “If they wanted to learn Photoshop, I taught it.”
He also never asked people questions about their past. Blaze said the idea was innovative for a club located on Skid Row.
“Most organizations on Skid Row know everything about you,” Blaze said. “I’ve never asked people their Social Security number or whether they used drugs. In fact, I’ve never asked any personal questions.”
Blaze said he wanted passion for photography to motivate people.
Instead of questions, Blaze offered his students snacks and free cameras.
At first, he expected some people to take the cameras and sell them for drugs and never come back, but he noticed his simple approach did something unexpected.
.JPG)
Blaze said some people did portraits and others photographed strange objects. A lot of people took pictures of architecture and landscapes. Women always brought pictures of flowers.
Last year, he said he gave away more than 100 Nikon D 40 cameras.
Blaze said he never kept official statistics on his students, but he saw some members, including Jojo, recovering and growing professionally.
After many members learned how to use the professional cameras and equipment, they created email accounts and started using social media to promote themselves as photographers. Blaze encouraged his students to sell their art online.
“The camera brought people together no matter their cultural background and race,” Blaze said. “It inspired people.”
Still for members like Jojo, photography was more than therapy. She said the club helped her to find the way out of homelessness and destructive past.
Jojo's Story
(Jojo/Olga Grigoryants, Neon Tommy)
For Jojo, the downhill path that led to a life of homelessness started more than 12 years ago on a quiet fall evening when her oldest son got shot.
That night, Chris, who was 18 years old at the time, was staying at his grandparents’ house in north Compton, Where Jojo grew up.
Chris, a student at Long Beach City College, was returning from his friends’ house where he was working on a school project.
He stopped at the corner of Central Avenue and 133rd Street to chat with two other neighbors when a group of young men approached them.
As the young men asked Chris and his friends what gang they were a part of, Chris noticed one of the strangers pull a nine-millimeter gun from his pocket. The boys started running as the bullets rang.
Chris’ friend was shot in the back and jaw. One bullet touched Chris’ leg, somehow missing a main artery.
When Jojo’s mother called her to say Chris had been shot, she could not believe to what had happened.
“I was like Chris who?” Jojo said. “I just couldn’t believe it was my son. He has never been in trouble.”
All three of the boys survived, including Chris, but it traumatized Jojo's family and schocked the neighborhood.
The shooting sparked a series of anxious and painful years for Jojo, from dealing with the court case to prosecute the shooter, to other family health failures.
In December of 2002, her mother was diagnosed with a rare type of leukemia and a few weeks later, passed away.
In 2006, Jojo’s husband died. Shortly after, her father, a veteran of World War II and the Korean War, was diagnosed with diabetes.
Jojo was left with her parents' medical bills on top of taking care of her four children and paying for her house all on her own.
During this time, Jojo became severely depressed.
“I couldn't even function,” Jojo said. “Everything was so overwhelming.”
She fell behind in paying her bills and soon had to give up her home, but tried to remain optimistic and look at the challenges as an opportunity to start anew.
Several weeks later, Jojo packed up boxes filled with amily memorabilia and put them in a storage.
Jojo’s children were grown-ups and had their own place to live or stayed with friends. Her youngest daughter Samantha moved in with Chris and his girlfriend.
Jojo had nowhere to go.
“You would think your friends said ‘hey stay with us,’" Jojo said. “I had a lot of people who stayed with me at my house, but when I lost my house, nobody ever called me.”
She packed her bag, put it on her green scooter and headed to downtown in search of a place to stay.
There she slept in a friend's car and would occasionally use her friend’s apartment to take a shower.
“Every day, I thought of ways to get by,” Jojo said. “I would go to El Pollo Loco or McDonalds and change my close and get freshened up and start my day.”
Through a friend, Jojo found a Women’s Renaissance program at the Weingart Center on Skid Row.
At the center, Jojo saw an ad written by Blaze inviting photographers of all levels to join the Skid Row Photography club. Jojo said she instantly liked the idea of studying photography.
She came to the first meeting in the beginning of 2011 and remained its dedicated member ever since.
Six month ago, Blaze started a new project, the Veterans in Photography club. Jojo, who is the only female and non-veteran member, announced she was a veteran’s daughter and had all rights to stay. Blaze and other members didn’t object.
Art through Skid Row
Shaded by a red umbrella, Jojo and Blaze sat at the table and shared photos of Skid Row taken with their Nikon D40 cameras and cellphones.
Blaze said he remembered how some members came to the photography club pushing shopping cart full of plastic bags with their only belongings. They would leave their carts by the door in the corner of the hall to join the other photographers. For many, it was the only place where they could relax and step out of their reality.
“That’s how it was for me,” Jojo said. “Blaze really helped me to get out of myself. He allowed me to see that I can be successful again.”
Recently, Jojo started working as a lab technician and moved into her own apartment on Skid Row in the same building where the club meets.
“There are a lot of people (even those I work with) who make comments about homeless people. They don’t understand that people on Skid Row might have special circumstances. They could work but still live on the street," said Jojo.
“If I hear that kind of comments, I tell them my story,” she said. “I think then they become more tolerant.”
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