Lens Is More

Category: People

  • Flow, Boston

    C. Thompson

    (2025)

  • Hydrant creek, Philadelphia

    C. Thompson

    (1988)

  • Long day, Nashville, Tenn.

    C. Thompson
    A world of her own.

    An outtake from the book, which actually appears as if it might be happening. (2022)

  • Moving day, New York

    C. Thompson

    From W. 56th to W. 57th. (1995)

  • Family time, Bessans, Savoie, France

    C. Thompson

    (2022)

  • Fourth of July, Collingswood, N.J.

    C. Thompson
    Hey, Betsy.

    (ca. 2001)

  • Quiet afternoon, North East, Md.

    C. Thompson
    Before the kid wakes up.

    (1991)

  • Street acrobat, Memphis, Tenn.

    C. Thompson
    Entr’acte

    One of the reasons this site went on hiatus (see previous entry) is because I got kind of panicked by all the talk about how AI/GPT/whatever was going to just rampage through the web, inhaling anything and everything, including art. (And it has.) Not that I’m producing art, exactly, but a creator’s style is evidently what they’re after.

    So, I started to think: What if I have a style, and AI eats it? I’m not sure whether I have a style, but I started to realize that my work is probably the very last page on the internet that AI would look at. I decided I was being silly. No one gives a fuck about me.

    The other hiatus reason was that, because I was fatuously concerned about all that above, I had turned toward Instagram and started posting there. It seemed as if co-opting the work was less likely there, but, of course, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Then came a change in Washington’s administration, and with it a sickening shift in the hate-speech policies (as in, they’re gone) at those Meta platforms that include Instagram. So, I got out of there.

    I guess I could just go all Vivian Maier and hope to be discovered as some hermit-photographer — and, really, that’s what would make me happiest — but, like every one of my delusions, it’s a delusion. There’s something in a person who makes what he thinks are pretty things that wants others to see them. I am accepting that I feel the same, much as it embarrasses me.

    Further, I may have a photobook coming this year (we’ll see) covering a road trip I took around the U.S.. The thinking was that it may be wise to have some kind of landing site for those who like the book and want to see more.

    This one is the cover image for that book. The man was doing insane vaults for the tourists on Beale Street. Clots of them would arrive, and he’d go to work. Then they’d move along, and he would rest. (2022)

  • The morning of his wedding, Chicago

    C. Thompson

    Technically, Arlington Heights, Illinois.

    It’s been a little while since I’ve been here, and I’ve got some catching-up to do, so I’ll make an exception and get a little personal. This man was my stepbrother and best friend ever. He died almost exactly a year ago from ALS at age 65. Here, he’s one week away from turning 32.

    I was his best man. There was no way to arrange anything like a bachelor party in advance, given that everyone who might participate lived somewhere far away. So, I organized it, with a telephone (remember, 1990), to go down after the rehearsal dinner. With most of the men involved sharing a hotel floor, we staged a mini-golf tournament. The hallways were fairways, the rooms were the greens. Participating rooms were named after iconic golf courses, and in them were served drinks associated with their place — Augusta? Mint julep (close enough). Shinnecock? Long Island Iced Tea. Merion? Fuck them. Shot and beer. Et cetera. There were about 12 holes (rooms). Putters were provided by a local.

    This went on for hours until the hotel security paid us a visit. (Actually, it might have been the real police.) Hey, the badge said, we get it. How about we take this party down to one of the hotel’s empty banquet rooms and let you see this out without further disruption?

    Sold. The few of us still standing gathered up the booze and drugs and took an elevator.

    So, what you see is a man who is up, preparing to get married, about an hour and a half after we had closed our eyes.

    The irony, as, I guess, was also true of Lou Gehrig, whose name became the face of the disease, was that his athleticism and mastery of his sinews was as impressive as his heart and intellect. He was a star soccer player in high school, could throw a dime on the football field, drain a 20-foot jump shot with ease, and I never once beat him in ping-pong.

    After his wedding, he helped raise a boy and a girl, worked at his job and became a pillar of his community. At least, according to his obituary. I don’t really know, because we fell out in 1992 and I scarcely heard from him again.

    (Sept. 2, 1990)

  • Running errands, Bessans, Savoie, France

    C. Thompson

    (2022)