No Easy Walk BY Helen M. Stummer (Temple University Press, 1994) HELEN M. STUMMER was born in Newark in 1936. She is a visual sociologist and photographer who took photos of impoverished people in Newark’s Central Ward from 1980 and 1993. These pictures appeared in her book, No Easy Walk, alongside her own ethnographic fieldwork. The book asks, “Are people poor?” and “What happened to Newark?” and in many ways documents her own interactions with the people she photographed. This interview explores how Stummer sought that subject, how she engaged with the people in her photos, and more broadly, how photography can be a tool to address memory and history. Stummer is partly a photojournalist or concerned photographer and partly an artist. Her work is the physical embodiment of abstractions: dignity, struggle, dissent, disappointment, ugliness in beauty, and clarity in chaos. Her pictures actively try to destroy the idea of the poor as undeserving or as criminal. Her work is an act of protest. She also sees it as an act of self-portraiture. Read more at www.hmstummer.com

November 26, 2009 One thing we hate is rejection… We’re so afraid of being rejected and so people don’t take a risk when it comes to people. Who wants it? I didn’t want it. But for some reason, I learned, I really have a gift. I was only refused twice in 35 years by people who didn’t want me to photograph them. After a while I had to tell my students, “Don’t take it personally,” because they don’t know me; how can I take it personally? They could be a Gypsy… they think they’re losing their soul, or the Amish, someone could be hiding, it could be an abused person hiding for some reason… or they don’t like being photographed. People are amazing to me. They would let me into their home. It’s uncanny. I was always bowled-over, I was always so amazed how people allowed me into their life with hardly any hesitating. It’s a gift. It must be a gift. I don’t believe it happens to everyone. It’s about education but also to try to awaken someone’s sensibilities, to go past the stereotype, to try to get a sense of what is it like to live in this environment. I heard the other day someone said why my work was unique. I never thought my work was unique; it was because they felt I may be the only person in America who has spent so much time in an urban environment with some of the same families. They don’t believe it’s ever been done. I just don’t think of it as anything. I never had a plan or a goal. I just did it because I did it; I wish I had a goal. It just happened. I did it from my gut, my heart more than anything. It felt right. It became a passion. I really want to help other people; the advocacy part of me was really enraged by the conditions people were forced to live under. It enraged me, because I realized it’s man-made. It doesn’t have to be. I interviewed politicians… if their grandmother was forced to live like that, it would change. We could fix it. For No Easy Walk, that’s why I wrote it like that, to show why people are poor; that’s what I wrote the book about — why people are poor. It’s spelled out — why are people poor. One thing white people always ask me is: “Why don’t people move if they don’t like it there?” A lot of my work never got published, but it enrages me. I never cared about a person’s skin color… I never did. I photographed in Maine where they’re all white people. I photographed on the LES where there’s a mixture; I photographed in Newark where they’re all black. It’s the way it is. We’re segregated. What I’m doing is trying to show people in the inner city as individuals and they need to be respected as individuals, like we all are. But then I knew early on that people really didn’t want to look at pictures of poor people. It’s not a big seller or a big draw; you can’t draw people in much. So, I have to make them beautiful composition-wise and present them as beautifully as possible and that means the foreground is just as important as the background, the expression of the person, the lighting, and there’s that energy part that nobody knows about… it’s either there or not there. And then to present it as a print, to make the most beautiful print possible with all the tones. And then I always present my work on masonite; no frame, no glass. I wanted the spectator to be as close to the environment as possible. They’re not there, but there is nothing to hinder it, nothing to obscure it… you are there. As close as you can get by not being there. That is always how I present my work. It’s about education but also to try to awaken someone’s sensibilities, to go past the stereotype, to try to get a sense of what is it like to live in this environment. And not what’s on TV or in the newspaper. I have found the poorer you are, the nicer you are. Maybe that’s a stereotype too, but that’s what I’ve found. People were always so kind to me, and I was always amazed, because I really didn’t get that in my own family that much. It kind of surprised me all the time how well I was received, no matter where I was.

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How did you decide to photograph in Newark?

It took about two years. I think we’re all… we don’t notice the same things or respond to the same things… I wanted to find a place to photograph like I had on East Sixth Street. There I had the Children’s Aid Society. I would use that as my home base and use that to go out to the street. I was looking for that in Newark when I realized… this is a terrible place. I drove around and I photographed a church. It didn’t click, though. It didn’t feel good. It just didn’t feel right, the pictures just came out… “blah.”

But I kept responding and seeing that building, 322, because it’s on the way home to 78. I would go from Irvine Turner Boulevard to 78 and pass this one building, 322. I started photographing on the corner there, because it scared me. The person from the Coalition Six, the group I was photographing for. I told the director how I felt about this building… every time we went by I would be totally electrified, I would be totally different. I could feel the pull. I could feel the whole thing. It scared me. There were people all around. They place was burned-out. So she said, “Let’s go drive there.” So we went to the corner. There was another building on the corner… it wasn’t frightening at all actually. She went up to the people… she was black, and introduced us. “What can we do to help you?” That’s what she said. And they said, “We would like that traffic light fixed. There are so many accidents here.” [The light was at the corner of Madison Avenue and Irvine Turner Boulevard.] Here people are living in this devastated condition and they’re concerned about a traffic light, that other people are getting hurt. The next day, the light was fixed. I came back a couple of days later, by myself… I was God. They didn’t say that, but that was how I was treated.

… I was so moved by the respect they gave me. I was allowed into another world. And that’s what most of my work has been about… I’ve been allowed into other worlds.

That was my start. But I wasn’t really happy with the pictures there. I kept looking at 322. Little by little, I photographed going to 322. The traffic light residents said: “You really don’t want to go there. It’s probably the worst place in Newark… it’s filled with drugs and prostitution.” One day I went up to them and saw the children playing. I asked them if I could photograph the children. I always start with that. They thought I was either from DYFS [The Division of Youth and Family Services] or a social worker. Then I would bring back always a photograph… and photograph more. Then I became involved with the families in the building. I was always scared to death. It was a really dangerous place. It wasn’t any fooling around. The connection I had with that house… 322… I photographed that building for fifteen years.

They had a second fire and people had to leave. The three major families whom I was involved with there… So, I followed them and still kept involved… I still am. One of them, I still am… I just saw her a few days ago. I photographed her children growing up. She’s over on North 13th Street now. And her son was killed, actually shot to death a year and a half ago. They asked me to photograph the funeral. I don’t want to photograph a funeral and people who are dead. I was so close to Khalif. I had never gone to a burial until last year, but I kept saying “I’ve got to do it… it’s my work.” This is part of it. I keep pushing past that part where I don’t want to do something. You’ve got to take a risk. I was amazed by this funeral. The photograph I have here is huge. It was the second son who was shot to death, this woman, the mother. It was horrendous. I was exhausted. I said “I’m going home now.”

I said, “I was so tired…” But the son-in-law said you have to come to the RIP Site… I said, “I’m tired… I’ve got enough.” But when someone says something three times, I listen. He said, “Follow me.” He had this Jeep of some sort. We’re twisting all through these streets and all these places… you’re out of your mind; he pulled up in East Orange on Park Avenue. He double-parked, and I pulled up behind him. I don’t like the whole idea of being stuck out in the street like that. I think he got out of his Jeep and there were hundreds of people on the street all over. And he went, “Let her do what she wants…” he yelled out. There’s something with me… something takes over in me. I know it’s a moment that’s important and I go… I go with it, whatever it is. I started walking down the sidewalk. Everybody moved to make room for me. But I’m seeing this as the photograph. I’m seeing hundreds of people as the photograph. I didn’t even get to the site yet.

You know what I do… I really have a deep respect for everybody… how they think; how they are. I picked up my camera as a signal that I wanted to take a picture, and most people turned their back on me. That was a signal that they didn’t want to be photographed, so I put my camera down. I didn’t take the picture because it’s very disrespectful. I kept walking and these three men said, “Come on, come on,” and then the site was there and they posed… usually I don’t like posing. I only have a couple of pictures in all these years. I always tell them to be natural. Act like I’m not here. But there they were and there’s the picture.

It was there. It’s huge. Then I walked back again and I was so moved by the respect they gave me. I was allowed into another world. And that’s what most of my work has been about… I’ve been allowed into other worlds. It doesn’t happen. You don’t experience that and I’m very lucky. It’s been absolutely incredible and I healed myself. Because I was extremely shy and you can hide behind the camera. It gave me… It was a tool I could hide behind. It brought me out of myself. I was able to relate to people and people related to me. The whole experience became healing in itself.

I don’t know if I’m more sociological or more art. I try to satisfy both by asking questions. For years I would photograph falling-down ceilings and give it to the families and they would give it to the Board of Health or… And it was fixed and it embarrassed me, actually. Here you’ve got a white person from the outside and I would always say, when I called someone… “I’m Professor Stummer.” And it works. “There’s no heat here. You’ve got to do something here.” The people would be complaining forever and they never got anything done. And here I’d come along and it’s fixed.

Is this only because of race, do you think, or is it class as well?

It’s both… that’s the way we are in this country. They can tell I’m not from the ghetto and they associate white with being professional and that you’re involved with something. Actually, I was telling someone the other day… a white person is safer in a black ghetto than a black person is. Because black people see me, or a white person, as connected. Social services, DYFS, police, a nun, whatever. They make that connection. So, they’ll leave you alone more than they will a black person. I always thought about that.

When you make these calls…

You have to make fifty. The telephone is in a closet somewhere and no one is at the other end of it. It wears me out. How can a person who’s under this daily crisis and had to go to a payphone deal with this? I mean, come on, it’s impossible. That’s why these landlords and truckers who come in and dump things in the middle of the night in the lots and the children play.

I call to see if it’s contaminated or not. That’s why they get away with it, because no one’s going to complain. They have so much… they’re sick, they’re dealing with everything. They landlords are horrendous. They get away with it. But if the landlords even see me photographing… even see me… it’s fixed, like that. Because someone is watching and when someone is watching, things get done. Wonderful works… seeing that I gave prints to the families… it was so effective. But I’ve heard so many horror stories. I’m not about fairy tales. I know what’s going on. Someone’s making money and it’s corrupt and the families are suffering. And it doesn’t have to be. And it breaks my heart, really.

So, has anything changed from say 1980 until 2009?

No. No. Nothing. They’ve got a few houses they built there that the people who live in this environment can’t afford, so they’re always swept away. I spent time in Stella Wright Housing Project which the residents called “Hoodlum City.” I was just doing my archives and was just scanning those prints in yesterday.

When you look at these children… it was so painful for me to even look at. You look at these expressions… you don’t see expressions like that in the suburbs on children.

You don’t. I thought all you’ve got to do is see it. At the beginning I thought, all you’ve got to do is see it. But it doesn’t work like that. I thought I was going to change the world. But Stella Wright had to be one of the most horrible places to live that I have ever, ever experienced. They’ve bulldozed it now, but that’s not the point. That’s what they do, they blow it up and they think that something is solved… “Problem’s gone now, blew it up, gone.” The pictures I have of it… there were open drugs, the first floor they used as a shooting gallery for practice. Rapes were rampant. The families had to live in these conditions. So, I’m going to go in there now, right, I’m invited in because Tania’s brother is on the 10th floor. But I want to see… I have a strong curiosity also.

She took my camera gear and wrapped it in rags and she carried it. She signaled to her brother on the tenth floor that we were coming in. Because if you’re not up there in a certain amount of minutes, they’re going to come looking for you. So then we went in.

I have a strong fear of elevators… I don’t like it… I’m kind of claustrophobic, but I do anything if I have to… if my passion overcomes my fear. We went in, the door closed. Thank God… We’ve come this far… Tania said, “Forget it… see that opening on top of the elevator… the shaft I guess they call it… the hoodlums are up there and when the door closes they jump down and take what they want.” I wish you hadn’t told me that. I was devastated. The photographs of the children… I wrote the stories of what they told me.

It was such a dungeon… It was such a horrendous dungeon. The photographs are very clear, and I said: “What is our environment… how does it affect us?” How is it everyday, going through this dungeon, seeing people bleeding. Seeing people coming after you with a knife, and beating you up and trying to sell you pills… no safety whatsoever… what does that do to you? You know, I want people to think about this. Because we’re so safe… you cannot go outside. There is no such thing as a backyard… there isn’t any. You’re always ready to die. People are ready to die or lose their children. Every time their children leave the door, they pray that they’ll see them again. What kind of a horror is this to live under… and this is America? Come on; and it doesn’t have to be, you know. We could put up security at the stadium there, and give people a chance with education. I know children told me every story. It’s all wrong, it’s all backward.

This one young man whom I photographed forever… it kind of breaks your heart because they’re so trusting and they’re so nice… until they see the reality and then they realize there’s no goal, nothing’s going to happen, their dreams are not going to come true and then they change and I photograph that change. In their eyes especially.

He couldn’t read and when the teacher would pick on him, and all the kids would laugh at him, and he got in fights and the teacher would expel him… Why he had fights is really the question and it kept on till he dropped out of school as soon as he could. The streets got him. At sixteen he allowed me to photograph him, this last photograph… he was holding his baby son. He thought I was totally out of my mind. I always told him, You look just like an African king to me: you are elegant, you are gorgeous… he did and he thought I was totally insane, but you can see from the pictures… that’s exactly what he looked like. And he’s in jail… he’s been in jail for a long time. I think he shot a cop or tried to or… His anger… and I saw the police humiliate him… they do that with the little kids.

They humiliate them. They go in and they make them drop their pants. They’re eight, nine years old, to check them for drugs and then they put cuffs on them and then after they have their fun let them go. This creates rage. It goes from anger to rage… and it’s in them. You can’t do things like that. You can’t have these bully cops… I’m not saying there aren’t good ones. I’ve met them; I had them in my class. But there are bullies too. Bullies do a lot of damage, a great deal. You need to get rid of those. That’s what I saw… I tried to portray it and photograph it and show it as clear as I could. I’m done. [laughs]

How do you place these photos in the context of art in general?

Well, as a concerned photographer. That’s what I went to school for. The concerned photographer is an advocate. It means you’re concerned about humanity. War photography, journalists… caring about people. And I’m a concerned photographer. There are books on it. Eugene Smith was a concerned photographer… those wartime photographs… Robert Capa… we’re concerned about what’s going on with humanity. We’re not concerned about flowers or fashion. It’s like Jacob Riis, Lewis Hine, Dorothea Lange was concerned because she was getting paid by the government. Ansel Adams did a whole series on the Japanese internment camps. Lewis Hine with child labor… he spent his whole life trying to get child labor laws.

Getting access is one of the major things about being a concerned photographer. That’s the hardest hurdle of all. I want to show other people what it’s like, how you’re living here, because I don’t think it’s right. It was the right thing. On East 6th Street and a lot of them would leave… they said “We can smell attitude.” I said to myself: Thank God I’ve got the right attitude! [laughs]

In terms of access, do you think being a woman helped that?

Well, it could have. A photograph I’m kind of well-known for… I was pulling around a corner and there were three teenagers sitting in front of an abandoned church.

I couldn’t believe it… they were exactly like that photograph… I almost fainted. I went running up the street… “I’m Helen Stummer… I’m a photographer…” I said “Don’t move! You’re perfect.” Except, Cornelius in the middle had a sandwich down. I said, “Can you put the sandwich down,” and he put the sandwich down. Maybe it’s because something takes over in me, I’m really sure of myself, though I’m really scared. And the more scared I get, the louder I get. I was photographing them and it turned out I won a prize… the best photo in show internationally in all media.

The concerned photographer is an advocate. It means you’re concerned about humanity… I want to show other people what it’s like, how you’re living here…

I went to find them because I wanted to share the money with them. I said: “Why did you let me photograph you?” They said,”Well, here you are, my hair is flying, a little old lady… you don’t seem like a threat… we thought you might be a nun… you were kind of funny.” The whole thing was kind of funny. The only thing they asked me is, “Don’t say we’re doing drugs.” They said, “We’re just chilling out from high school. We just got out of school.”

It’s just one indication… I seem to emit or gain trust. I think that has been my way of being accessible. I see something and know it’s a photograph. I don’t set-up anything. I don’t know how. I know when I see it I know it. But until I see it, I don’t know, just be natural. Then when I see it I can do the photograph. So, it’s very uncomfortable for people and for me a lot of times. It’s persistence, I guess. I have great love for doing what I did.

I stopped. I just don’t do it anymore. I don’t have the energy. I have osteoporosis and arthritis. My husband has dementia… it drains you. It really does. I used to worry about when I was going to stop, and fear it. But it happens naturally. Now I’m doing something just as important is organizing it and archiving it: the New Jersey Historical Society is taking all my Newark work and the New York Historical Society is taking all my New York work. So to prepare that is an incredible project.

Given this definition of the concerned photograph, do you think photos are political statements?

Always… you can’t separate the two. I’m between an artist and an advocate and that’s a concerned photographer.

In what ways can we understand what had happened to Newark from looking at art that you can’t get from history books or social commentary?

I wanted to separate the person from the environment… the environment is bleak, the environment is poison, but the person is fine; they’re beautiful, they’re elegant, they’re powerful… I believe my work shows that. It’s the separation…. If you live in a bad neighborhood it does not mean you’re a bad person… Come on, it’s stupid, but we do put them together. I really love the light coming out of the dark… I like that a lot.

Bruce Davidson had a goal, he was set-up. I’m not saying some of them aren’t beautiful photographs, but he exploited people. And he got a lot of recognition and he worked at getting recognition… he knew how to do it. He played it. I had no capacity for that. I just went along and it worked out okay. I guess we all do what we do.

Do you think you would do anything differently about these photographs now, knowing what you know thirty years later?

I thought about that once… I’d probably take better photographs now [laughs].