Robin Williams at the UCF Arena

Robin Williams warms up the crowd on his Weapons of Self Destruction tour in Orlando, Fla. Oct. 23, 2009.

Having the opportunity to photograph Robin Williams last week was a dream come true. His outrageously flamboyant and at times somber characters have permeated American culture to its very core. His roles as Peter Pan, Patch Adams, Genie in Aladdin, Armand Goldman in The Birdcage, and the Moon King in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen are only a very limited few of my favorites. Even though I was only allotted 4 minutes to shoot, his energy and command of the stage made it obvious that he healed wonderfully from his heart surgery, which had postponed the concert originally slated for March.

Orlando’s annual Come Out With Pride draws 50,000 at Lake Eola

Click here to view a Soundslide I made for class about the Come Out with Pride event in Orlando.

This was my third attempt at creating a slideshow using the Soundslides program. It’s a must-have tool for many journalists, and it’s extremely easy to use. However, there is still one major thing I haven’t quite gotten the hang of.

When I entered a multimedia contest at my university last year, I heard the judges say that my display lacked timing. I assume that they referred to pacing of the photos, but I was still largely left in the dark. After viewing countless works of others, I started to notice a trend: They simply flowed. They were a conversation in and of themselves. The thoughts of several subjects, never having spoken with one another, intermingled effortlessly.

So, tell me fellow journalists: How can I do that? Have I improved? When you view the slideshow, does it work?

———

One day after President Obama reaffirmed his pledge to overturn the military’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, an estimated 50,000 of Orlando’s gay community and supporters celebrated downtown during the annual Come Out With Pride event.

The event coincided with National Coming Out Day, which serves to encourage discussion about gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender issues.

Dan Brown, Artistic Director and Conductor of the Orlando Gay Chorus had a booth among the various tents and vendors. “This is just such a great thing,” he said. Hear Brown and Mr. Gay Florida Universe, Reginald Dunlap, by clicking the player below:

Carissa Papp was adorned in rainbows from head to toe, including her eyelids. “It is an amazing opportunity,” she said while standing under a Best Buy tent. “It’s a place to find out where your LGBT-friendly businesses are… It’s also a great place to educate yourself because there are a lot of non-profit groups that you can get involved with and volunteer.”

Event highlights included Stuart Milk serving as grand marshal of the parade and giving a speech at a post-parade rally. Milk is the nephew of the late Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in California who served as a city supervisor until he was murdered in 1978.

According to the central Florida magazine Watermark, the Metropolitan Business Association, an LGBT chamber of commerce, took over the Come Out With Pride event in 2005 and moved the event’s date from June to October to coincide with the national date. That year, it attracted 8,000 people.

Tiesto at the UCF Arena, Oct 16, 2009

Tiesto took Orlando by storm last night via a whopping four-hour set.

The Tiesto crowd, about 10 minutes into his set.

“Shooting The Killers” sounds weird.

It’s been far too long since I last updated this. I’ve been keeping busy with my blog for class, making commentary on the state of converged journalism, trying my hand at making maps in Google, shoddily putting together audio and even posting some original reporting (oooh! Ahhh!).

The UCF Arena called me in to shoot The Killers tomorrow night, but I’m pretty doubtful it will be an ordinary set, given their disposition on press photographers. It wouldn’t be the first time an act has said no to photos, and it’s a rule I have to accept, however grudgingly. The best I can hope for is that they only prohibit shooting from the pit, in which case I’ll break out the 80-200.

Also on my plate for tomorrow is a bright-and-early promotional shoot with The Rockettes! I’m extremely excited to see how this pans out, especially since my ad work is limited.

Somewhere amid the madness I have to write a five-page paper, meet and plan a tutorial video with classmates for French, find and report a story in podcast form and change Blucephalus’ oil (yes, I named my blue car after this guy).

Autumn is definitely here.

Already? European Adventure Part Deux

Sorry to my Anglophone friends about the last two posts – they’re for class! I promise to translate them for you when I come home.

It’s time to pack everything I possibly can into a box on wheels and head out. I’m ecstatic to get away from Paris and see something new, to plunge once more into some place totally unkown to me…

…But, in all honesty, I could reaaaaally go for some Taco Bell.

Last night we had a 2.5-hour goodbye dinner on the Seine. The monument guide was completely in English, the food was good, but typical €95 fare – ha! typical! – foie gras, pork fat jelly, mushrooms, steak, potato, ratatouille, plus sparkling champagne, Chardonnay, and some insanely dry red that I couldn’t stomach. The singer and violinist played a few French songs, but then they hit us with a couple of surprises: Frank Sinatra’s  New York, New York and The Rolling Stones’ (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction. So tacky. Each dish was merely a taste. Just a tease. It left our wallets, and my stomach, empty.

As soon as we got off the boat, we bought €3 crepes. And they were gooooood.

Mum came to Paris yesterday after a 4-hour delay in New York (ah, JFK, you never cease to amaze me). She called me jetlagged, frustrated as hell and crying. I was worried as hell because her plane landed at 11 a.m. but we couldn’t get in touch until 3 p.m. I blame it on bizarre phone dialing rules.  I was just relieved to know she was OK! I went to her hotel and, determined to actually do something fun, we went to Musée D’Orsay and saw some of our favorite Impressionist pieces. With our fatigue, we only lasted two hours.

I feel that traveling with her is going to have such a different dynamic than I’ve grown accustomed to over the past month, but it’s a good thing. Never grow complacent.

Today is the Big Day. I’m lugging all my crap up and down the metro steps with a smile on my face and a suspicious eye on the guy next to me, who in turn is probably eyeing my belongings.

Bruges, here we come.

Le Métro II: Une Conversation Qui Coule

À mon université, le professeur de photojournalisme dit toujours « Shoot from the hip » ou, prenez une photo d’une nouvelle perspective. Ainsi, j’ai pris à une photo chaque 10 mesures dans le métro. Mon appareil-photo a pendu de mon cou à ma taille. 

La plupart des images sont brouillées et ne sont pas claires. Elles signifient les choses étonnantes que nous manquons quand nous nous dépêchons d’un endroit à l’autre.

Le métro m’intéresse parce qu’il est un système sophistiqué de transport qui n’existe pas chez moi. Je crois qu’une culture vraie doit avoir le transport public avant qu’elle puisse prospérer.

Les stations du métro ont une abondance d’arômes différents. Quelques parfums sont agréables, d’autres ne sont pas : pisse, pain frais, fleurs, pisse, chocolat, pisse, pisse, pisse.

J’écoute une étrangère raconte une histoire au sujet d’un homme qui a commencé à se masturber devant elle. Chaque vendredi, un groupe de trois adolescents sourds fument la marijuana ensemble dans la dernière voiture de train. Ils ne sont pas très discrets parce que la fumée se renverse dans les voitures adjacentes, où les enfants s’asseyent avec leurs mères.

Une amie saoudienne dans ma classe de français me demande s’il est dangereux aux Etats-Unis. Je lui dis que les problèmes aux Etats-Unis – le phénomène des sans-abri, faim, crime, drogues et pauvreté – sont les mêmes que n’importe où dans le monde. Avoir peur, c’est inutile parce que le mal est partout. Si que sera sera : la clé est chercher des moments de la beauté, de la humanité.

Approximativement deux fois par jour, une personne monte dans mon (j’ai dit « mon » parce que je l’emploie, pas parce que je paye des impôts français et le possède partiellement) train pour demander l’argent. Certains demandent simplement avec une petite tasse donnée, d’autres racontent une histoire de leur vie. Leur enfant est malade, ils a besoin de l’aide. Même si leurs histoires sont identiques, ils indiquent toujours « Bonjour Madames, Monsieurs » et surtout « Merci à vous. »

 Mais, mes personnes préférées sont les musiciens et les chanteurs. Pour entendre un accordéon tandis que le dépassement de la Tour Eiffel est un cliché si sous apprécié. J’ai écouté les violonistes et les chanteurs qui utilisent les machines portatives de karaoké, et je les ai aimées tout juste les mêmes. Plus tôt dans ce blog, j’ai mentionné que la musique dépasse la religion. Je crois également qu’elle dépasse l’origine ethnique et le statut social. C’est l’une chose que chacun peut apprécier.

Après 15h00, un bon nombre de gens se bourrent sur le train, même s’il n’y a aucun espace pour eux. C’est particulièrement vrai chez Chatelet-Les Halles. Le métro est trop lent, la station a une puanteur horrible, mais seulement les touristes se plaignent. Moi, je suis enthousiaste pour voir des visages partageant le même air – ou, dans mon cas, les mêmes microbes parce que j’ai été malade pendant la plupart de ma visite à Paris.

Une Entrevue: Sur le Mètro

Ici, une entrevue courte pour la classe de Madame Trinquet. J’ai posé des questions à mon prof de français, Madame Gautier, à La Sorbonne.

Here’s a short interview for Mrs. Trinquet’s class. I asked my French professor, Mrs. Gautier, some questions at La Sorbonne.

Quel est votre nom et votre prénom?

Je suis Véronique Gautier.

Où habitez-vous?

J’habite dans le 15ème (arrondissement).

Quelle ligne du Métro est-ce que vous utiliser?

Je prends la Dix.

Seulement la Dix?

J’ai de la chance ; je ne fais pas de changements. Je vais travailler direct, pas de changement.

C’est génial.

Oui, j’ai beaucoup de la chance, oui.

Quel est le plus bizarre évènement vous avez vu sur la Dix?

Alors ! Justement ça c’est amusant vous posez la question. Hier, j’étais assis en face d’une femme habiller d’une burka , c’est un voile totale, une femme qui vient de pays de moyen orient. On a voyais…

Plus lentement, s’il vous plaît?

Bien sûr, excusez-moi. Hier, j’étais assis en face d’une femme vêtu  un grand voile noir, qu’on appelle une burka, ou nicab, et…

Musulmane ou… ?

Oui, une femme musulmane et on ne voyait que ses yeux, uniquement ses yeux. Et, quelques stations plutard, une jeune femme est venue s’assoir à côté d’elle. Et elle était vêtu très très très moche. Elle avait une jupe très très courte. Et on voyait son visage et ses yeux, c’était plus frappé, c’était le choc culturel. Entre ces deux femmes et le regarde, c’étaient les mêmes yeux. Mais l’une était complément couvert en noir, et l’autre était presque nous. Je trouvait cette scène extrême intéressante.

Et vous êtes là, entre les deux femmes.

Entre les deux, oui.

Ah, c’est bizarre.

Je n’avais pas un appareil de photo donc je ne pouvais pas ce photographié. Si je savais la destinée, cette scène extraordinaire, ce contraste entre deux femmes…

Week 3 in Review

I’m starting to prefer these massive posts to short, daily ones…

Monday, June 15

Crappy weather. Wandered around Bastille again and found lots of 60s surf rock shops, skinhead fashion boutiques, and sex cartoons in hardbound books. This place feels so much more real than most other areas of Paris. It’s grimy, raw and absolutely delectable. I imagine this is how NYC’s CBGB used to be.

I love his eyes.

 I see a gorgeous poster advertising a hardcore concert. I knock on an unmarked glass door and a woman, who was sitting at a desk, answers. I explain the interruption as well as I can with my limited vocabulary: “”Je suis collecteuse des affiches. J’ai vu cette affiche, qui j’aime beacoup… Est-ce que je peux la prendre? L’événement est terminé.” She leaves me to summon a man from another room, and I repeat myself when he asks. He then goes to find yet another man, who smiles the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and at once goes to snatch it off the window for me. He asks if I want the tape removed, and offers to give me two others, if I want them. Of course I do! He explains that his business is to archive posters and photographs created by Parisians. Judging by the crowded bookshelves and desks, I could see their collection was extensive. Their earliest pieces date back to the 20s. To think that there are no signs to mark its presence there…

I am simply so ecstatic to understand and be understood that I forget to take a picture.

Maddie reveals that she has a book deal in the works; and we celebrate with an impromptu dinner bash. I bring steak-flavored chips and cheap wine, other offerings include cherries, Brie, baguettes, sausage…

Celebratory feast. I wonder who dared to sneak in those Pingles and that Coke?

Tuesday, June 16

Today I pay respects to Wilde, Apollinaire, Piaf, Chopin and Morrison at the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. Yes, Wilde’s grave is still covered in lipstick kisses despite signs asking visitors not to desecrate his resting place, and yes, Morrison’s grave is barricaded much like the stage during his concerts, but the grave of Apollinaire is truly my favorite. There’s a visual poem, in the shape of a heart, which means “My heart is like an inverted flame” in addition to a beautiful 3-stanza poem.

"We Will Never Forget You." Was the bouquet actually preserved in the tombstone?

O is for Oscar.

The text alone is simply awesome.

Dinner on St. Germain with a few friends at Le Villon provided an unusual experience: ice in our glasses without request and fast, almost eerily fast, service. It felt like an insult, as if the waiter wanted to say, “I know you’re not from around here, so I’ll do you a favor and spare you the experience of dining my way.” Every traveler has her or his own preferences, but I want you to ignore me! The drink is cold already, I don’t need ice!

At least the food was good.

Wednesday, June 17

My New Thing To Try is quiche. Granted I’m not a big fan of eggs or ham fat, so our affair is doomed to begin with, but YUCCCCCK! I finally found something I never care to eat again.

The Conciergerie is dull, but the Salle des Gens d’Armes is lit beautifully and the prisoner mannequins elicit a laugh. Fun fact of the day: Wealthy prisoners could buy larger, more comfortable cells.

La Salle des Gens d'Armes

Thursday, June 18

The highlight of my day is the falafel from L’As du Falafel in the Marais district. Hannah wasn’t kidding when she said it was life-altering. Dare I say it, this falafel was even better thanwhat I had in Israel. The New York Times once tried to direct attention to Mi-Va-Mi, a competing vendor across the small street, but all the praise for L’As is well-deserved.

Balancing one-handed, like a pro.

Annnnnnnnd as of today,  Miguel Donvez has officially replaced Shepard Fairey as Best Street Artist Ever.

Mimi One

Mimi Two

Around 11 p.m. I venture out to MixClub in Montparnasse with a group. Erasmus is free for international students until midnight, so that’s all we need to hear. The large interior is set underground and resembles Orlando’s Roxy nightclub (for those who don’t live in Orlando, that isn’t necessarily a good thing). The DJ spins mostly house and the same 5 or so songs that I’ve heard everywhere else, and by 1 a.m. the hoards of partiers exude this collective air of utter desperation. By sticking to my circle of girlfriends  in a second-floor corner, we avoid aggressive advances while still enjoying the Amercian songs that were popular two years ago.

A bar at MixClub.

Friday, June 19

Everyone has a dog here. Most of them are so well-behaved that they aren’t put on leashes. Other pampered pooches get to come to work with their owner. People are starting to approach me for directions. For dinner: escargot, grenouille, duck, and a liter of wine. Don’t ask me why three girls took it upon themselves to order a liter of wine, but we did. My time here is drawing to a close, just as I’m starting to find my niche.

I Survived Week 2. No, Really!

I’m so far behind in my writing. Ugh. To catch myself up and leave out all the boring bits (which I like to think I do habitually):

Monday 8

A mandatory phonetics course commences today. The professor doesn’t “look, act or dress” French, as one classmate puts it, but her handwriting and pronunciation are impeccable. It’s cold and raining, and there’s ongoing construction around the building our classroom’s in. Basically, we get soaked while waiting to go in. For an hour, we repeat words into recording headsets and make funny faces (“Ooooh Eeeee Eeeegrek Looksemboor”). Positive side: There’s an AMAZING boulangerie right next to the metro stop, so I can get a cheap, chocolatey snack to hold me over til lunch every day.

Claustrophobia-inducing cubicles, headsets and the number five, oh my!

That evening, I go to a cinéma in Montparnasse to see my very first French movie without subtitles, Ne Te Retourne Pas, a psychological thriller starring Sophie Marceau and Monica Bellucci. It follows a woman who deals with questions of identity and finds that her family and home are morphing into the completely unknown. In short, it’s friggin awesome and you should go see it (or wait for a subtitled version to come out, or wait for an American director to steal the idea and remake it entirely ahemm… Ils / The Strangers).

Tuesday 9

I am sick as a dog. I stay home from class, organize my newfound collection of postcards (not the tacky ones from the souvenir shop, but rather the ads to convince one to stop smoking, etc.) I just can’t get over the graphic design here. Everything is absolutely tasty to the eyes. I save myself €5 by doing my laundry in the sink. Yeah, it’s that expensive here. About €3 to wash a small load, then another €2 to dry it. Thanks, Cité, but I think I’ll hang dry my underwear from the curtain rod you’ve furnished the room with, allowing the entire street below to feast their eyes!

Wednesday 10

I can’t speak, period. I receive a 17 out of 20 on my first exam, which is the equivalent of an A. On the French grading scale, they say anything 18 or higher is reserved for God. After class, I meet up with Rachelle to visit the Deportation Memorial. The cold rain only added to its austere sense of forboding, and the use of triangles and suffocatingly narrow halls reminded me of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. Forgive, do not forget.

Mémorial de la Déportation

The UCF crew meets at Crêpes a Go-Go near the Pantheon to discuss our adventures thus far with Charlotte, our extemely hippie, frizzy-haired, French professor who loves to tell things the way they are. I order veggie soup and tonic water. It’s nice for the throat, but I still can’t talk. Among 20 of us, the bill comes to €160.

Madeleine (Maddie) is a badass.

When the rain finally slows, I head over to Shakespeare & Co., the famous anglophone bookstore. I buy a copy of French Milk by Lucy Knisley following a recommendation by Maddie. Knisley illustrates her days leading up to, during, and after her stay in Paris with her mother. I find it interesting that she and I are both around the same age, worrying about post-university life, and traveling with our mothers in Europe (well, not quite yet in my case).

Shakespeare & Co.

Thursday 11

At last, we experience some sunshine! I walk along Champs-Elysees and… I just don’t get it. How do some people explain a €100 keychain from Louis Vuitton (pronounced Vweeton, not Vuhton)? And what’s the point in having “the real deal” if everyone who even cares about the brand is too preoccupied with whether its a knockoff to even enjoy its aesthetic value?

The entire mindset puts me in a sour mood, but I take a random train to a random stop to Opéra, where I enjoy my first Croque Monsieur – heavenly, absolutely heavenly despite I never enjoy ham – and read about my home basketball team, the Orlando Magic, once again in DirectSoir, a twice-daily publication whose morning edition is called DirectMatin. It’s so strange to read basketball scores in French, but it’s great practice. My eye is irritated and green goop is oozing out of it. Great.

Café Opéra. Myummmmmm.

Friday 12

I wake up with my eye glued shut. My poor Quasimodo eye. Before class I visit a pharmacie with The Australian from class (she’s so spunky I love her to death). The pharmacist spoke English, but the moment I showed her my eye there was no need for words. For only €12 I got cleansing solution and eyedrops, sans prescription, sans insurance. I love it.

“Does this mean you’re allergic to Paris?”

Médicaments!

While waiting in the lobby, a man asks me to read a short paragraph about Machiavelli’s The Prince and if he could record it. Then, he asks to read it to me and see if his pronunciation is correct. My professor had encouraged us to do the same when practicing our French, which I had, so I’m ecstatic to reciprocate. His name is Henock Franklin and he’s a professor of philosophy in Haiti. He was preparing a lecture for a university about his Creole translation of The Prince. That’s just about the coolest thing that’s happened to me so far.

The picture is crap, but I like it anyhow.

That evening we trek to the Louvre once more, this time focusing on French paintings, the ancient Orient (the Code of Hammurabi FTW!) and Napoleon’s apartments. We came, we saw, and unsurprisingly we still have yet to conquer.

Napoleonic Néléphant.

The Louvre just. Doesn't. End.

En Messe

Sunday

I’m head-over-heels for the coffee vending machine outside the computer lab. Thé au lait (tea with milk) is the most comforting thing in the world for my head cold. I originally planned to head to the Louvre again today since it was free, but I’m not up to it. Rest. Water. Rest. Rest. Water. Besides, Barack Obama is scheduled to be there today, meaning a chunk of the building would surely be blocked off for security reasons.

Notre Dame

This morning I woke up bright and early to take part in today’s New Thing to Try: Mass. I wasn’t sure what might happen if I, a so-called non-believer, were to participate in the holy ritual, but the thought of attending Mass at Notre Dame is just too good to pass up.

A tourist lights a €2 candle at Notre Dame.

I found myself asking questions: What does the smoke signify? Why does the priest extend his arms at some parts and not at others? What’s the difference between kneeling and standing? Will I be shunned for not accepting Communion? How this a Benedictine service different than others?

 

Since taking photos during Mass felt more than disrespectful, here's a service following the one I attended.

The music was simply divine. Its echoes off the long halls made it seem ethereal; voices seemed to reach for the heavens and surpass physical barriers. For me, the music transcends religion.