street prostitute 27: photographing Ronda
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
Would you like to read the uncensored version of the text you just read? You can—for free—if you click below on my new ebook about Ronda, RONDA: AN INITIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE. Then click LOOK INSIDE above the cover.
street prostitute 27: photographing Ronda
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
{Ronda was kicked out of the Flex Hotel for nonpaymet of rent, and all of her belongings: all of her clothes, her makeup, everything, is being kept by the hotel until she pays what she owes them. She and Melvin have taken a room to be paid on a daily basis at the BestWay Inn at the corner of 14th and the Freeway}
************
My camera's exposure meter tells me the light in the room is too low to get photographs of the track marks on Ronda's arm—the first order of business we've agreed upon for the day—so I check the light at the window and ask her to come over. In silence she pushes up a sleeve of the same holey white sweater I assume she's been wearing for six days now, resting her forearm, inner side up, on the top of the radiator.
The telltale ridges that run from her wrist to the crook of her forearm stand out clearly for my shot. After two snaps, I raise the camera, aiming it at her down-turned face. "Look this way."
"You said nothing about face today." Her protest is swift, almost angry.
"Well—[keeping the camera at my eye]—look this way."
"I just woke up!"
But she looks anyway—looks into my camera like few people do: very directly and openly.
But after just one click, she gets up. "I need to buy me a sweater," she says, hooking a finger through one of the holes in the one she's wearing, "and some more jeans."
"Well"—I set my camera aside—"you just lost everything. How often does that happen?"
Ronda glances at Melvin, who has just turned over, his eyes open. "How often has it happened since we've been together, Melvin? About three times?"
"Mmhmm."
"It happens to me all the time," says Ronda, laughing. "It's been going on like this for years. Thank God most of the stuff I own—decorations and all?—is stuff I found in junk piles."
Would you like to read the uncensored version of the text you just read? You can—for free—if you click below on my new ebook about Ronda, RONDA: AN INITIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE. Then click LOOK INSIDE above the cover.