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I am in the same room as he is. Camera in hand, under the same lighting, facing the same subjects as him. But no. I don’t see it. Not what he does. When the session is over and I combine our shots on a computer screen is when I realize how uniquely we see. It’s a very humbling experience. It never lets my ego say: “I do it better.”, but makes me realize: “I do it differently.” He claims the same of me.

When Gene and I share a photo shoot, we exchange eyes. And help each other see what we couldn’t on our own. That happens in and out of the studio. He is my Valentine. I hope you find yours. And if you do, bring him over, we would love to look at you, together.

To see more photos of this studio session visit my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/jennifercabral.photography

I surround myself with relics. Trinkets that become sacred because of the places it has come from, or of whom has given it to me. I keep it for the beauty it possesses, the laughter it reminds me of, or as a mere attempt to believe in something. These objects don’t take me home. They make my home.

I keep the Madonnas and secretly envy their mantles; Seeds, roots and crystals bewitch my surroundings, as I crave pagan objects to still be forbidden. To this day, I would exchange beads for mirrors, any time. And toys don’t let me take myself (or my profession) too seriously.

But as 2012 is about to start, or as many say, to end it all, we need protection from the four directions. So lets keep images of Saints and its angels for guidance; Use sage to clear our bodies from evil spirits; And even bring offers to a body of water for the goddess Yemanjá, if need be. Let’s come up with rituals. Invent sacred objects. Allow them to invade homes and haunt each corner with its blessings and curses. And believe in all its powers, so it can cary us throughout the year. And to the next. And next.

May the new year, begin.

Photo stories of everyday life - that is what Jennifer Cabral creates. Her search is for those intimate moments that happen in a family’s daily life. She wants you to invite her over, and let her witness your day as it happens. (And that, probably doesn’t include 10 family members in matching outfits, posing barefoot in your living room.) You are all sitting on a table having pancakes, the juice spills;  You are trying to read on the couch and your 5-year-old wants to play. Legos are all over. The dog, too. It’s messy. It’s life. It’s real.

When you invite Jennifer to document your routine in your own environment you are giving her access to all the elements she needs to tell your story. Any background can be added: the park where your favorite swing sits; or the backyard bench you wished you enjoyed more. Props can be included, too: cookie sheets and sprinkles, blowing bubbles or Goodnight moon pages.

To see some photo stories go to www.jennifercabral.com

Copyright ©Eugene Pierce

Ten years ago, I woke to witness the absolute worst and the very best that humanity has to offer. Now, a decade later, I am sadly left with the feeling that there are far too many days in which the worst has the upper hand. Terrorist groups still twist and warp the words of religion to justify their goals, while, our own politicians, use the events of that day as a rallying cry to serve their own agendas. Many of the responders that survived that day and the days to follow, still struggle to obtain the quality of medical care they so desperately need and deserve.

Although  many hold names, such as King, Mother Theresa and Gandhi in high regard, it seems we have only learned the words, they spoke, and not their true lessons. I don’t remember, where I read it, but one of my favorite quotes has always been: “pray for your enemies.”

This has been week 1 of 2 that I’ll be without a car. And so, a walk in the neighborhood took a completely different meaning: it was no longer for leisure, but out of necessity. I told myself: this is a good opportunity to see the community, use local services like the library and public parks and shop at local stores.

But when I looked for a grocery store, all I could find were stale vegetables and white bread on the shelves; When I wanted a bakery or coffee shop, there was none to be seen - unless you call Dunkin’ Donuts as such; and the public library was closed - summer hours threatening to be effective year around, because of State budget cuts. I saw a neighborhood forgetting what it was like to be a thriving community and starting to acknowledge it was barely making it.

According to a 2001 Sensus, there are about 4,081 people, 1,747 households, and 1,070 families residing in Lawrence Township with me. Well, they might live here, but they are not shopping locally. The concept of “local” is going 20 miles north to the next strip mall. SUV required. The habit of walking around the neighborhood disappeared. And with it, came entire stretches of town with no sidewalks in sight.

When I lost count of how many store fronts were boarded up, I realized the radio announcements of a weak economy had materialized right down the block. Months of vacancy had now become years, and any attempts to keep the empty real state presentable were as abandoned as any expectation of an economic recovery. My inconvenience is easy to deal with for two weeks, what’s hard to face is that, what’s gone is probably not coming back to this neighborhood any time soon.

After ringing the door bell, the gate was opened to us. A polite and timid maid walked us through the garden. At the door, Dona Lourdes awaited us. My parents were received with a warm welcome by their friend of many years, and I, after being kissed and hugged, escaped to see the backyard. Immense buildings surrounded the property on all sides. The only allowed view was the sky above. But the sunlight was plenty for the decade-old-trees guarding the house. Fruits like Papaya, coffee and Jaboticaba (Myrciaria cauliflora) waited to ripen. Orchids housed by trees, thanked the hospitality with splashes of color on each branch. Pots were carefully planted with herbs that were used as spices, as well as, medicine. The memory of my dad crushing Boldo for his eventual hangovers came right back to me, as I saw some Peumus boldus growing there.

This backyard would’ve been unnoticed when growing up - just a typical house in my neighborhood. My Aunt Nenem’s place had an immense loquat tree (Eriobotrya japonica) attracting all kinds of birds, combined with a fish tank and wondering ladybugs - one would always come back home with me, inside a match box. At my Aunt Efigênia’s house, I would spend hours making bubbles using the stems of mamona, better known as, castor oil plant. No straws back then. Sometimes on my way home from school, I would stop by the Jaboticaba tree, at my friend Raquel’s house, for some snack. And all neighbors knew about the avocado tree next door: “It’s so big, it could kill you”, as some would describe the riped avocados that fell out of the sky. But all I had to do was to look up at the suffocating presence of skyscrapers over this house, to be reminded that places like this no longer exist. My hometown of Belo Horizonte, in Brazil, has become a permanent construction site. All houses from my childhood memories have been torn down, long ago. Progress, some say.

I’m invited inside. The table is set. Coffee, biscuits and pão de queijo, the regionally famous cassava flour bread, were served. My parents were having lively conversations and old stories were being shared like cups of coffee. I couldn’t resist the architecture and started to wonder around the place again. Inside, religious relics blessed and protected the home. Even from the precise ticking of the clock, it seemed. Time was still. Family history was hanging on the walls, as if intact. I walked down the hallway and found one of the rooms. A mosquito net and the open window made the humid South American air even more pronounced. Dona Lourdes walks in. “You can come and stay, anytime you want. This house is yours”, she said. And during an afternoon in May, I pretended it was.