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Ronda stands, slipping on her jacket. She says—"I'll walk you out, George...I gotta go out anyway."
In the elevator going down, she's quiet. Until she says: "I hope I don't see Charlie."
"Who's Charlie?" I ask her.
"You know," she says, reminding me: "The one I ripped that seven hundred dollars off of. I'm always worried about seeing him."
The elevator stops at the lobby.
"Is he the type," I ask, "that might get violent?"
"Somebody told me he would. He has two guns that I know of."
We step out into the lobby.
"That he keeps in his car."
.....................
On the sidewalk outside, as I'm saying good-bye, I notice that Ronda is standing in the path of a narrow but brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turn to see its source. The lowering afternoon sun is casting her rays between two tall buildings. Casting them down upon Ronda like a spotlight beamed from the heavens.
My photographer's eye stimulated, I reach quickly for a camera…
I've got to get a picture of Ronda in this light, where all but her is in the shadows...
On the other side of Peachtree, suddenly, are two mounted policemen, their horses' hoof-beats sounding on the pavement.
"Yeah!" Now Ronda gets excited. "Get a picture of me with these cops in it! Hurry!" she commands as I fumble with the f-stops. "Hurry! Take it! Take it!"
I snap the shutter—just in time, I hope—catching Ronda, plus the cops on their horses; and I'm taking more just of Ronda when all at once her face lights up.
"There's my buddy!"
Her eyes, gleeful, are fixed on some man about halfway down the block. She skips down the sidewalk to him. I watch as they hug then together walk toward me.
The guy, I see as they come closer, is in his twenties, wearing a made-to-look-like-leather vinyl jacket and a felt hat, its brim turned down.
Ronda does the introductions—quite properly as always. He's Michael Hoffman, a good friend of hers, although she hasn't seen him in ages. And I am George Mitchell, "the one who wrote Ponce de Leon." Michael's into photography himself—he owns a Cannon system, he says—and he's always admired the pictures in Ponce de Leon.
"Well, right now, I'm doing a whole book on Ronda," I tell him.
"Way to go, Ronda!" He grins widely, showing some black and rotting teeth.
Ronda smiles.
But then a shadow crosses her face and her gaze drops downward toward the sidewalk. "Yeah...well..." she surprises me by saying, "I'm not too sure about what I'm representing."
"I love Ronda," says Michael, turning to me. "She's not like the rest of the girls out here." He puts his arm around her. "She's...she's about like a six-year-old. And I've never seen her get angry."
You just don't know, I think to myself, having heard her express such extreme anger about her mother so many times. You just don't know.
As they catch up on each other, I photograph them...
And at one point, Michael, facing Ronda, places his hands on her shoulders...and Ronda's eyes close, and the tension disappears from her face...
Briefly disappears...just as it had a couple of months ago when I placed my hand on her forehead to feel for fever.
Michael leaves, and as I am putting away my cameras, Ronda, watching me, mutters, "You could get a picture of Charlie putting a bullet through my head."
"What?!" I exclaim. "That's not something I want to get a picture of."
"Well," she says, and there's no little laugh, "it could happen."
______________________________________________________Photo and text excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
Volume one
Volume two
ENGLISH:
The two Salvation Army officers speak to two prostitutes. Many of the women who work on the street were lured to Switzerland with false promises and are now being forced to offer their services. They have to pay usury rents for their small room and also have to give a large part of their earnings to the pimps. The women cannot go to the police because their passports have been confiscated. The women are also threatened that if they do not do what the pimps command, the family in their home country will be harmed. These are terrible conditions and the Salvation Army is trying to help a little where it is possible.
1/87 scale diorama. I labeled the Ritze car model myself with the text: We help with God's help - Salvation Army.
Also note the poster, it says: For people who work in the streets - Salvation Army.
ESPAÑOL:
Los dos oficiales del Ejército de Salvación hablan con dos prostitutas. Muchas de las mujeres que trabajan en la calle fueron atraídas a Suiza con falsas promesas y ahora se ven obligadas a ofrecer sus servicios. Tienen que pagar rentas de usura por su pequeña habitación y también tienen que dar una gran parte de sus ganancias a los proxenetas. Las mujeres no pueden acudir a la policía porque les han confiscado los pasaportes. Las mujeres también son amenazadas de que si no hacen lo que mandan los proxenetas, la familia en su país de origen se verá perjudicada. Estas son condiciones terribles y el Ejército de Salvación está tratando de ayudar un poco donde es posible.
Diorama a escala 1:87. Yo mismo etiqueté el modelo de auto Ritze con el texto: Ayudamos con la ayuda de Dios - Ejército de Salvación.
También observe el cartel que dice: Para las personas que trabajan en las calles - Ejército de Salvación.
DEUTSCH:
Die beiden Heilsarmeeoffizierinnen sprechen mit zwei Prostituierten. Viele der Damen, die auf dem Strassenstrich arbeiten wurden mit falschen Versprechungen in die Schweiz gelockt und werden nun dazu gezwungen ihre Dienste anzubieten. Für ihr kleines Zimmer müssen sie Wuchermieten bezahlen und müssen dazu noch einen grossen Teil ihres Verdienstes an die Zuhälter abgeben. Die Frauen können nicht zur Polizei gehen, weil ihnen die Pässe abgenommen wurden. Auch wird den Frauen gedroht, dass wenn sie nicht machen was die Zuhälter befehlen, der Familie im Heimatland etwas angetan wird. Das sind schreckliche Verhältnisse und die Heilsarmee versucht da etwas zu helfen, wo es möglich ist.
Diorama im Massstab 1:87. Das Ritze Auto Modell habe ich selber beschriftet mit dem Text: Wir helfen mit Gottes Hilfe - Heilsarmee.
Beachte auch das Plakat an der Häuserwand.
First, I'm sick of seeing how the prostitute is at "the heart of the Spitzer sex scandal." I'm in no way condoning what she did, but I mean, come on, who the only person really at the heart of the Spitzer scandal is Mr.-I'll-Pay-$4,000+-to-Have-Extramarital-Affairs-Spitzer. And then Mrs. Spitzer just caaaalmly stood next to him during his resignation speech. Quite frankly, I see no dignity or bravery in that. How could you stand next to such a psycho sicko?? Bahh, I'm sick of people like her and Hillary Clinton promoting these ridiculous "Stand by your cheating, lousy, pigheaded, disgusting, perverted man" ideas. I mean, I'm psyched that we have a woman presidential candidate, but if she didn't have enough strength to leave her husband, even if she really didn't leave him simply for political reasons, how can she lead a country?? And she's setting a horrrrrrible example for girls/women everywhere.
Second, I don't know if you guys saw it, but the picture on the Explore page of the naked baby in the bowl creeped me out to the umpteenth degree. I mean, why would you want a picture of your baby in cooking ware? Hansel and Grettel, anyone? Furthermore, it was naked! I knoooowwww people just looooove naked baby pictures, and if those are your thing, hooray for you. But a naked baby....in a bowl.... I've seen a lot of strange things on flickr, but that may just be the strangest.....
I took another flickr/photo vacation. These things are just popping up like crazy. I'm really going to try to comment and respond, but eeesh, I don't know. I've been so out of the swing of things lately, and I apologize. I'll be back on track soon, I think. Okay, I made two corny rhymes in two sentences. That's dorky. Ohhhh, man. My k key wasn't working for a second, and then we would have had dory...and that is not dorky...
It was gloriously warm outside. I was out there for hours just doing nothing, and it felt amazing. And there were all of these birds flying directly overhead..... I didn't have my camera with me when it happened, though.... But I was just like, of course...that is just the kind of luck I have. But maybe it's better that I was able to see them with just my eyes, not through a viewfinder.
And guess who has a job interview at Dairy Queeeeeen tomorowwww! I'm very happy. Ice cream + summer = unadulterated love. I just hope it goes well. I say the most horribly ridiculous things when I'm flustered.
Lovely texture from NinianLif
I built a sexy hooker to counter my opponent's build Always use protection. The figure itself is inspired by pasukaru76.
This is my 3rd build for the Iron Builder with Matthew De Lanoy.
The seed part is the Brick Round 2x2 Dome Bottom.
I'm still posing in front of my red light window, working as a prostitute and trying to seduce a customer to share some love and make some money. However, since the window is in a cabin in the woods I have a hard time finding anyone. Maybe that's for the best though, because I'm only a hobby prostitute doing this for a fun photo shoot. I hope that you, as my Flickr "customer", appreciate my sexy seductive efforts. All for free and no payment needed, although a positive comment would be welcome. Take care and see you again next week.
Thank you Tess for making these photos and for being my only "customer" after the photo shoot.
Ebook on Ronda
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
Volume One
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
I had to take a close-up of this street scene -- it was huge and elaborate. But I'm not sure that the Lego corporation is aware that the creators built a little tiny prostitute on the street.
I'm a prostitute in front of my red light window. In this line of work you got to draw attention and seduce your customer. Therefore I'm looking out of the window in a provocative pose, highlighting my long legs, silky stockings and soft satin bum. I'm just a beginner as a prostitute, but hopefully this pose looks skillful, will draw your attention and will pleasantly seduce you...
Disclaimer:
I am not for sale and this is just a photo shoot for fun.
La "Calle Montera" est une des rues les plus touristiques de Madrid. On y trouve des prostituées à toutes heures de la journée.
"Calle Montera" is one of the streets in Madrid, which attracts most tourists. There are prostitutes all hours of the day.
Excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREETWALKER. You may buy volume one of this ebook or read fifty pages for free here:
********************************************************************************
…A bleak silence falls over the room.
"Did you bring some pictures, George?" Ronda finally asks.
"I was going to print today, but the water's off in my darkroom."
"Oh," she says, no longer sounding so mad.
"I was going to print some very beautiful pictures of you with...with the bears…. However, do you know what this book needs?"
"Uh uh."
"It needs a picture of what you look like right now. ... And then you can look at it."
Ronda erupts. "What's wrong with the way I look now? I'd like to know what the fuck y'all think I look like! I've got fucking strep throat….”
She fades off.
Outside the sun has set, and the room is so dark now that I cannot clearly see Ronda's features. Speaking gently I say, "You know, Ronda, I don't know about the problems between you and Melvin or whatever, but when I was talking about how you look right now? You're sick with your throat, I understand that. But your eyes ...are just...heavy as hell... Like bloodshot."
"Well—[her voice weak]—you can call my mother—[pathetic, really]—and ask my mother...if it's not true...that the first thing that people looked at was my eyes...and know I was sick. My eyes tell everything!"
"Okay," I say. "I know you could care less about this project right now... I was just thinking about getting a picture of you in bad shape. But I don't need to, you know."
"Under the covers?"
"Huh? Under the covers? That would be all right," I say. "So just get back in bed."
When I get back from my car with my camera, Ronda is no longer in the chair at the dresser, neither is she under the covers, but is sitting on the edge of the bed cuddling Bob in her lap.
______________________
Excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREETWALKER. You may buy volume one of this ebook or read fifty pages for free here:
Here is where you can read a sample of Volume 2 that begins with Ronda's first day in the hospital:
I hope you you will consider purchasing one of the books, which are described on this video:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWgnO6fZqmM
****************************************************************************
(This photo was taken the day after the following story)
_____________
10:30 P.M.
"George, this is Tim G______."
His voice sounds grim.
"I'm calling from Grady Hospital," he says. "Ronda's here, and it looks like she's gonna be here for a while."
"What's wrong with her?" I ask.
"They say she's got a staph infection and a heart murmur."
"What room is she in?"
"Still in the emergency room."
"I'll be right down."
As I'm throwing on some clothes, I wonder:
Should I take my camera? My recorder?
No, I reluctantly but quickly decide. Because if I do, Ronda might think that the only reason I've come is to document the event for the book.
In ten minutes, I'm parked near the county hospital for indigents—a mammoth hulk of a building. Hurrying on foot past the ambulances and police cars jamming the rampway to the emergency room, I look down just in time to avoid stepping in a puddle of blood.
Once inside, the first person I see is Tim. (Note: Tim is a trick of Ronda’s, an educated middle-class social worker who knows Ronda well, and who told me during a long interview that he is in love with her; and, according to Ronda, offered the other day to take her away from it all and move up to the mountains with him.) He's down in a squatting position right outside the doors to the emergency room. His face is buried in his hands.
He looks up at me with eyes wet from tears. He stands and leads me through one of two huge swinging doors into the emergency room.
The place is like a tunnel. A long and windowless tunnel. Lining both walls are stretchers. Every one appears to be occupied, and every one of their occupants appears to be black and elderly.
Nurses and orderlies, doctors and police officers are bustling here and there — mostly in and out of the examining rooms, which run the length of the right-hand side of the corridor.
Tim and I proceed onward...until, about halfway down, Tim stops and points to the open door of one of the examining rooms.
I take a few steps further, peer in, and there see Ronda..
.
...Who looks awful.
She's in a raised-up hospital bed, an IV protruding from her neck....
She's holding a teddy bear—Joey, her favorite. With both arms, she’s clutching him tightly to her chest.
Also in the room is a man in white—a doctor no doubt. Standing with his back to Ronda, he is writing something... working, I realize at that second, on her chart.
Tim waits outside in the tunnell while I go on in and stand beside Ronda in her bed.
"Hi, George," she says, her voice weak but warm.
"Hi, Ronda..."
I start to hold her hand...hesitate... But then I go ahead: I put my hand over hers, holding it.
"How're you doing?"
"I'm worried about Melvin," she answers. "What's Melvin gonna do?"
"Ronda, I think you should be concerned about yourself right now," I tell her.
I glance at the doctor, his back still to us.
"Dr. Grumwald?" Ronda catches his attention. "I'd like you to meet George Mitchell," she says as he turns. "He's the one I told you about that's writing the book about me."
"What's the situation?" I ask him. He is handsome, tall and curly-haired. In his early thirties.
"All we know for sure right now—" [his demeanor serious]—"is that she has an infection of the skin called cellulitis. Which is usually caused by dirty needles. But she could also have endocarditis. We're running tests for endocarditis now."
As the doctor is talking, Ronda slowly moves her hand from underneath mine. I've held it, I realize, a little too long for her comfort.
I bring out my notepad. "En—do—car—di—tis? What's that?"
"An infection of the heart valve," says Dr. Grunwald. "Bacteria gets on the heart valve, and it sits on the valve and chews it up. It is extremely serious, and if she has it, we might have to do open heart surgery. To replace the heart valve.”
He takes a breath.
“And I want to impress upon Ronda—and upon you—just how serious the situation is."
With that, he leaves the room.
Ronda groans.
"A nurse took a blood sample from here"—she gingerly places her hand over her abdomen—"and she messed up and hit a bone."
I wince... "Is it hurting?"
"Hell yeah, it's hurting!" her voice picks up energy. "And, goddammit, I want decent medical care! This IV has fallen out of my neck twice."
"Why did they put it in your neck?"
"Because they said— They said that they couldn't find enough—enough—undamaged—vein in my arm."
Ronda is very upset.
"And they've taken so many blood samples, it's a wonder I got any blood left. They ain't taking no more blood from me either. Uh uh. [Shaking her head.] I don't want to see another needle."
Someone in the doorway. Two nurses.
Addressing me, the older one says, "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to leave. We need another blood sample."
Ronda's lips tighten. She sets Joey aside and folds her hands across her lap. She stares at the ceiling.
"Do you want me to stick around?" I ask her.
Keeping her eyes on the ceiling, she gives a quick little nod.
I step out into the hubbub of humanity in the tunnel, where I immediately see Melvin. Talking with him is a young and attractive black woman holding a clipboard with pen poised above it. I check her name tag as I join them. Dr. Wendy Clayton.
"And who," she is asking amicably, "should be called in case of an emergency?"
Melvin sits there appearing uncertain.
"Me," he says finally.
Melvin solely responsible for Ronda? Melvin?! In the condition that Ronda is in?
I ask the doctor to put my name down as well.
And with no questions asked, she does; and then moves on, leaving the seat next to Melvin available to me.
"So what happened, Melvin?" I ask, sitting down.
"Well, last night her arm started swelling," he relates. "And then this morning, her leg started swelling too. And she got a real high fever, and she was hurting. But", he says, "she wanted to wait until Tim got off work to go to the hospital, so she'd have a ride here and back. See, she thought that they'd just give her a shot and she could go home—but when we got here, the doctor told her she'd have to stay. And so then she said that since they wouldn't give her anything for pain, she was going to go home and do a Dilaudid."
Melvin appears as unruffled as ever. I, though, need a cigarette and need one desperately.
"Melvin, you wanna go have a cigarette?"
"No, I believe I'll just stick around in here."
Just outside the big swinging doors where I'd originally found Tim squatting, I now find him pacing. He comes over to me as I'm firing up my cigarette.
"Okay, Tim," I say, "let me get your report. What happened?"And pretty soon he’s taking up where Melvin left off…when Ronda announced she was going to leave and get one more shot of Dilaudid…
"And I said to the doctor, I said, 'Doctor, tell her what's gonna happen if she leaves here and doesn't come back!' And he said, 'Well, your arm will puss out, and it'll have to come off. If it doesn't kill you.' And then she was raising hell, raising hell. Big scene, big scene. And she slugged me in the jaw."
"She hit you?"
"Yeah, she nailed me! Because I wasn't gonna take her anywhere. But finally I said, 'Fuck it! If this is the only way, fine, let's go get high!
"So she got her pill, and she shot herself up, and she shot Melvin up, and we came back here. Came in, and the doctor knew what she had done; he just chewed her ass out good.
"And by this time, man, I thought I was having a heart attack, and so I had to go through all this hassle. Finally they wheeled me into an examining room—the one next door to Ronda's—and gave me an EKG."
"They gave you an EKG?"
"Yeah, but I was okay. So...."
"Listen, Tim, I appreciate you calling me. I really do appreciate it."
"When I told Melvin I'd called you, he said, 'Yeah, George'll be coming in here with his tape recorder rolling and his flash bulbs popping.'"
"I considered bringing them," I confess.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't, man."
When Tim squats down, I squat down next to him. I light up another cigarette.
"Ronda told me," I reveal, "that you asked her to leave the city and go away with you."
"Yeah," Tim confirms, "I told her that she could just ,you know, drop it all and start over, and we could move to the mountains. And before you got here tonight, I went in and renewed the offer. And she just looked at me, and she asked me: 'Why would anybody want me?'"
When I get up, Tim does too, and we push open the big swinging doors and again begin making our way down that long teeming tunnel. We meet up with Melvin right outside Ronda's room.
The door is open. In there with Ronda now is a new nurse, who is wrapping gauze around her right arm to hold in place a splint.
Tim, Melvin and I stand watching.
Suddenly there are only two of us watching the scene; Tim has become a part of it. He's marching into the room and up to Ronda's bed, where he kisses her rather awkwardly on the forehead.
I sneak a glance at Melvin to see what his reaction might be, but can detect none.
Tim comes right back out...and again the three of us watch. A mass of gauze by now encircles Ronda's arm, and the nurse is securing it with adhesive tape.
Again Tim goes in. And again kisses Ronda, on the cheek this time, and then comes back out.
Now a wheelchair is brought in.
The nurse starts to help Ronda into it, but Ronda, holding up her hand, stops her, indicating that she wants to do it on her own. Sitting up, she lowers her swollen foot to the floor. When she attempts to stand up, though, she winces in pain.
"That's a sick girl," mutters Tim.
He's right about that, I think, as Ronda allows the nurse to help her into the wheelchair... She is a sick girl.
From her wheelchair, Ronda looks up at the nurse and points toward the bed. Joey's still there.
Ronda wants her teddy bear.
_________________
This concludes the story of photographing Ronda.
You may view many more photos and read a lot about her in the two volumes of my ebook, RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREETWALKER
Here is where you may read and view a sample of Volume One: www.amazon.com/dp/B0755CS9ZJ/
And here is where you can read a sample of Volume 2 that begins with Ronda's first day in the hospital:
I hope you have enjoyed this album and will enjoy the books, which are described on this video:
Maker: E.J. Bellocq (1873-1949)
Born: USA
Active:: USA
Medium: gelatin silver print
Size: 8 in x 10 in
Location:
Object No. 2023.447a
Shelf: C-26
Publication: E.J. Bellocq: Storyvlle Portraits, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1970, pl 14
Other Collections:
Provenance:
Rank: 76
Notes: Bellocq was born into a wealthy family of French créole origins in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He became known locally as an amateur photographer before setting himself up as a professional, making his living mostly by taking photographic records of landmarks and of ships and machinery for local companies. However, he also took personal photographs of the hidden side of local life, notably the opium dens in Chinatown and the prostitutes of Storyville. These were only known to a small number of his acquaintances. He had been something of a dandy in his early days, while he lived alone in the latter part of his life and acquired a reputation for eccentricity and unfriendliness. According to acquaintances from that period, he showed little interest in anything other than photography. After his death, most of his negatives and prints were destroyed. However, the Storyville negatives were later found. After many years, they were purchased by a young photographer, Lee Friedlander. In 1970, a show of Friedlander's posthumous prints on gold tone printing out paper from Bellocq's 8" x 10" glass negatives were mounted by curator John Szarkowski at the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. A selection of the photographs were also published concurrently in the book, Storyville Portraits. These photographs were immediately acclaimed for their unique poignancy and beauty. A more extensive collection of Friedlander's prints, entitled Bellocq: Photographs from Storyville, was published with an introduction by Susan Sontag in 1996.
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