Tim West
I saw him today
on Hollywood Boulevard
on this close to the final day
of 2006. I had met him before -
and photographed him many months
back, sitting on a bus bench, happily
telling me of his past - his time in
the trenches of Africa during WWII
with Rommel; how he got to know
Mae West, and more.
Today he was buying a juice drink
at a Korean donut shop on the
old boulevard, and I went up to him
and could see that he'd seemed to
have aged, and grown much more frail
than the last time we met.
I greeted him by name, and he looked
confused at me. I mentioned his time
in Africa, and he said in
a weak, sad voice, "No, you must
be thinking of someone else." When I
mentioned Rommel, he came to
life a little bit, and said, "That was
World War II,you know."
The Korean
man with long sideburns behind
the counter said, "He is a decorated
veteran, you know."
Tim said, "I can't remember
any of that now."
I asked him why, and he
said, "Those bastards, they
took everything I had."
The Korean man and I both
inquired, and he explained that
his landlord had insisted he
move to another room in
his building, and while he
was moving, someone came and
took just about
everything he owned.
The Korean guy asked if he
called the police, and Tim said,
"No, they don't care.
They just laugh."
He sat down. "Nobody cares," he
said. "Nobody gives a damn." I told
him I did. "Well, you're rare then,"
he said.
I reminded him that he's rare as well:
when we met before,
a young woman,
a crack addict with a crack pipe,
came up to us, and
asked for some money. I gave her
some spare change. Tim reached in
his wallet and gave her five dollars.
"I can't remember anything now," he
replied. "My voice, something is wrong
with it. I felt I needed to get out.
I had to get out of my room."
I gave him my card and told
him to call me anytime. He said
all he had left were
a few boxes of stuff
and he needed
someone to help him
move them. I told him to
call. I hope he does.
That darkened my day. I
was in a festive mood, happily
photographing colorful
characters, people
with dreams, with hope,
who perpetually attract
me to return to this old boulevard,
like
the sexy Supergirl pictured above.
But here was Tim,
so changed from our
last exultant connection,
and I was reminded again
that nobody is ever complete
the way a photo is complete,
halting time, frozen
in a moment. The photographs,
they stay the same, but all
of us are in motion through
our lives,
human beings being human,
a process, a progression,
and here was Tim,
a generous guy,
a guy who offered
help to the helpless,
who fought for
this country when he was
called,
now beyond hope,
beyond his own memories.
Yet here he was still
in his 1950s hat,
rakish, jaunty still
even headlong so
far into this unfathomable
future. 2006 turns to
2007.
And things
go
into perspective
once again.
Tim West
I saw him today
on Hollywood Boulevard
on this close to the final day
of 2006. I had met him before -
and photographed him many months
back, sitting on a bus bench, happily
telling me of his past - his time in
the trenches of Africa during WWII
with Rommel; how he got to know
Mae West, and more.
Today he was buying a juice drink
at a Korean donut shop on the
old boulevard, and I went up to him
and could see that he'd seemed to
have aged, and grown much more frail
than the last time we met.
I greeted him by name, and he looked
confused at me. I mentioned his time
in Africa, and he said in
a weak, sad voice, "No, you must
be thinking of someone else." When I
mentioned Rommel, he came to
life a little bit, and said, "That was
World War II,you know."
The Korean
man with long sideburns behind
the counter said, "He is a decorated
veteran, you know."
Tim said, "I can't remember
any of that now."
I asked him why, and he
said, "Those bastards, they
took everything I had."
The Korean man and I both
inquired, and he explained that
his landlord had insisted he
move to another room in
his building, and while he
was moving, someone came and
took just about
everything he owned.
The Korean guy asked if he
called the police, and Tim said,
"No, they don't care.
They just laugh."
He sat down. "Nobody cares," he
said. "Nobody gives a damn." I told
him I did. "Well, you're rare then,"
he said.
I reminded him that he's rare as well:
when we met before,
a young woman,
a crack addict with a crack pipe,
came up to us, and
asked for some money. I gave her
some spare change. Tim reached in
his wallet and gave her five dollars.
"I can't remember anything now," he
replied. "My voice, something is wrong
with it. I felt I needed to get out.
I had to get out of my room."
I gave him my card and told
him to call me anytime. He said
all he had left were
a few boxes of stuff
and he needed
someone to help him
move them. I told him to
call. I hope he does.
That darkened my day. I
was in a festive mood, happily
photographing colorful
characters, people
with dreams, with hope,
who perpetually attract
me to return to this old boulevard,
like
the sexy Supergirl pictured above.
But here was Tim,
so changed from our
last exultant connection,
and I was reminded again
that nobody is ever complete
the way a photo is complete,
halting time, frozen
in a moment. The photographs,
they stay the same, but all
of us are in motion through
our lives,
human beings being human,
a process, a progression,
and here was Tim,
a generous guy,
a guy who offered
help to the helpless,
who fought for
this country when he was
called,
now beyond hope,
beyond his own memories.
Yet here he was still
in his 1950s hat,
rakish, jaunty still
even headlong so
far into this unfathomable
future. 2006 turns to
2007.
And things
go
into perspective
once again.