100 Portland Portraits
“I’ve been shot nine times. The first time I was only 15.” I stood in amazement while a man disappeared below the rim of a dumpster, throwing cans over his shoulder and onto the pavement. “My last close call was in January,” he spoke nonchalantly as he climbed out of the dumpster to stand next to me. “Long story short, a few minutes after my girlfriend left for the night, two men came in and robbed me. They hit me with metal baseball bats, dragged me out into the snow, and slit my throat ear to ear.” The man smiled as he lifted his crooked chin to show me the scar.
“Thank God my girlfriend left he purse in the house because she came back a few minutes later and saw me bleeding out. If there hadn’t been snow on the ground, I would have been dead. It numbed me up and slowed the bleeding long enough for them to get me to a hospital. They took a bone out of my leg and fixed my jaw too,” the man stepped forward and pointed to the crooked jaw.
As he finally stepped into the light I saw my chance to snap a photo before the sun set further. Deep wrinkles were etched into his face, and a faded tear-drop tattoo rested below his right eye. Scars adorned the man’s body as souvenirs of the life he lived, fights he won, and many he didn’t. I show the man the photo. He stares at the camera and admires himself, “Those doctors did a good job, didn’t they?”
James Prather
“I’m proud that I’m different than I used to be. I’m a changed man.”
I had only asked one question to unleash a flurry of stories that day and many days before: “What are you proud of?”
I had asked the same question to dozens of passersby walking the streets, alleys, and even train tracks one hot Louisville summer. I’ve always had an adoration for photography, but I had only bought my first camera days ago. Talking to strangers came natural. The camera side of things needed some work. After dozens of other conversations on the street, my photography was starting to show improvement. My quest for the summer was as much about capturing the faces of my beloved Louisville neighborhood as it was encapsulating the hopes and dreams of the people in it. Despite having no portfolio as a photographer, a local restaurant in my neighborhood of Portland, The Table Café, had agreed to display “100 Portland Portraits”.
The Table isn’t like other restaurants. It’s a “pay what you can” restaurant – one of only a few in the country and a staple in the neighborhood filled with people from all walks of life. The restaurant is not a soup kitchen. It’s a full-service bona fide sit-down restaurant complete with menus and servers, and run by some of the best people i’ve ever met. In an area of Louisville bigger than most Kentucky towns, it’s the only sit- down restaurant around.
On any given day, you can find a businessman or elected official rubbing shoulders with some of the unhoused neighbors who live under the viaduct down the street. And the same unhoused person gets the equal opportunity to sit down at a table, receive a menu, and dine. Walking through the doors every day is a heavenly snapshot of genuine community most people never get to experience.
Within the first few days of moving to Louisville, I was told to avoid Portland. Situated in Louisville’s West End, it has a bad reputation. A historically red-lined and disinvested neighborhood, the people here come from generations of resourcefulness. Not all can get by here, but those who make it their home are part of an unbreakable kinship. It’s a place where i’ve been robbed by my neighbor, but the same neighbor chased someone down the street when an outsider tried to do the same.
I can’t help but see the allure in the hundreds of dilapidated and abandoned shotgun houses that dot the neighborhood. Each house telling a story of dreams that once flourished, and maybe would dream again. There’s a captivating beauty in the raw roughness I witness when I walk the streets of Portland, and a community that refuses to be defined by those challenges.
Those who have been here long enough love to share the stories of a time when Portland flourished, stories passed on to them by their elders, and stories that seem a little less believable each time they are told to the next generation. Yet, a hope persists that the key to the once flourishing community rests in the people that define it.
Few would argue that it’s the people that make this neighborhood special, and it was those very people I wanted to adorn on the walls of the restaurant. In a neighborhood where the people who call it home seem to be constantly changing, chronicling 100 Portland Portraits was to serve as a metaphorical time capsule, capturing the unique people who make it remarkable. What initially appeared as an overwhelming task unfolded with effortless grace. The power of a simple question—"What makes you proud?"—worked like magic.
Like the man who told me he was proud he had worked at more than twenty different Waffle Houses. The woman who told me she was most proud of the time she found a heads-up penny on the ground – more than 365 days in a row. The protestor who walked off the job at the ice cream store to march in the King assignation riots – still dressed as an Icee cup. Someone told me they had never lost a dance contest. One homeless man admitted that he slept under someone’s house, unbeknownst to the family, for an entire winter.
Will Clark
“I’m proud they gave me the title of ‘Super Master Grill Operator’. Nobody else holds that’s title. It means I can run the whole grill by myself, no matter how busy. Only a few grill operators got that award in the whole company, and I am the only one left.”
The vulnerability of people eager to lay raw the trials and triumphs of their life was inspiring. It was as if a dam had burst unleashing a torrent of stories that held within them the essence of resilience. Survivors of cancer shared their harrowing battles, revealing their scars both visible and invisible. Addicts, on their nonlinear path to recovery, spoke of their demons with a palpable mix of shame and hope. The man who survived being shot in the head, and had me feel the bullet still lodged in his skull, left an imprint on me that I also can’t remove.
I talked with former street gang members and current outlaw motorcycle riders. I met people on their tenth year of sobriety and others on their first day of relapse. Each of them held a story of what made them who they were, often riddled with resilience, hopes, and dreams. I watched them laugh at the nostalgia of their childhood, cry over regrets from their past, and smile as they finally admitted they’d do it all over again.
I wasn’t fact checking my conversations. My new friendships were primary sources in a story where they were the main character. What they said, I wrote down, and what they were proud of, went in big bold letters under their photo. One man made the claim that he was the person responsible for stealing Cassius Clay's bike, the event that sparked Muhammad Ali’s journey to become the greatest boxer in history. Or the Grim Reaper, who almost certainly doesn’t own a motorcycle. Multiple people told me they would have been pro basketball players if it wasn’t for an injury, their grades, or Vietnam. I found myself wholeheartedly embracing their narratives as if they were the very embodiment of truth.
Beyond some of the most dazzling tales though was a love for family. After snapping a photo of a grandma with her child and granddaughter, I continued down the street when the grandmother came running after me. “When can I get a copy of that?” I stood there puzzled. “That’s the first time my daughter has visited me since she left the house. We haven’t talked in years.” I dropped off a framed copy of the photo the next day. She told me it was the only family picture she had.
On one particularly hot day, I was walking back to my house when I saw a young woman draping several grocery bags filled with clothes over her arms. Hoping to walk past and continue my trek back to air conditioning, I simply mentioned to her that it was a hot day to be packing so much luggage. She hadn’t looked up yet, but as I said this I realized she was crying. I set my camera down and offered a hand, but she was almost to the bus stop. “My ex-boyfriend threw away half of everything I own. He put his hands on me last night.”
I was startled by the immediate trust she had with me. “I took a bus up from Little Rock. I thought we could work it out. He slapped me. I’m leaving.” She was crying, afraid, and deserted in an unknown town. As the bus pulled up, the stranger collected herself, wiped her eyes, and swallowed a lump in her throat.
“Are you ready to take my picture?” she asked.
“No, thats okay. Take care of yourself and good luck,” I said while turning away - trying to be sensitive to the moment.
I was several steps away when I heard her yell over the sound of the bus, “Hey mister!”
I turned around.
“I want people to know I’m a strong woman.”
I paused a moment and snapped a photo. “I’ll tell everyone I know.”
A strong woman
As often is the case, so many people I encountered on the sidewalk I only met briefly enough to take a photo, and then off they walked out of my life forever. Some of the conversations I had were less than a minute, some were more than an hour. Regardless, those people left an imprint on me in my own journey. Portland is a place many people don’t stay long. Those who do, proudly live there for generations. Others come for a new start, a half-way house, cheap rent, a minimum-wage job. Portland is a place that intersects so many people’s lives at a pivotal moment. Most of the friends I met that summer, I knew I would never see again.
Other times though, my sidewalk friends would reoccur in my life – often when I least expected it. Six months after my project, I was standing in line at the convenience store to grab a quick drink on my way to the park. I was paying in all quarters, which meant Katie’s dad had gifted us some of his poker winnings.
While standing in line, a man walked right up to the cashier demanding money out of the register. I began to walk to the exit, with a stream of others before locking eyes with the robber. It was one of my Portland portraits. I nervously smiled and asked him how he was doing.
“Oh good good staying busy you know how it is.”
I glanced quickly over at the cashier and gave her an apologetic look as if this was somehow my responsibility now.
“This is my people right here,” he announced to the frantic store while gesturing toward me. I laughed nervously as my brain processed that I now appeared to be an accomplice in the crime.
In my panic, I dropped my change and it rolled under the end-cap on one of the displays. The man again demanded money out of the register, but he was now doing it while helping me pull change out from under the display shelf.
“This is my people” he again announced as he handed me a stack of quarters. The commotion had allowed the cashier to begin recording the robbery on her phone demanding the man to leave the store. I shot her another look that was meant to say “We’re not that close,” as I backpedaled out the entrance. As I walked toward the door, he followed not far behind, leaving without even a dropped quarter to pocket.
It’s been five years since I took the photos that summer. Walking into the cafe today, and taking in the collage of beautiful faces is like a kaleidoscope of emotions unfolding before my eyes. Several of the friends I met the summer are no longer around. Several I know have passed away, others I assume the same. Still more I hope moved on to experience the dreams they shared, stopping in my life momentarily just as Portland did to theirs.
Many did come in to the restaurant and relish at their photo hanging on the wall. In the middle of the four walls of photos sits a sprawling dinner table, big enough for the last supper. Every meal shared at that table is spent with the best of Portland – the community. Those who volunteered at the restaurant shared a special place there, and if they left this world too early, staff from the restaurant would crawl under the big table and write their name underneath. Whenever someone shares a laugh in that room, or gathers around for a big community meal, they are honored.
Over the years, the photos on the cafe wall have slowly disappeared. Some were taken by visitors, while others simply asked to keep them. Despite printing two copies, I never replaced any. As the collection dwindles, the project naturally comes to a close, and the second set remains locked away - buried in boxes in my closet.
Recently, my twelve-year-old laptop died, taking all its contents, including the original photos, with it. Two data recovery specialists confirmed the worst to me, nothing can be salvaged. Losing these photos was one of the hardest part of the loss. The only digital copies left are the few screenshots I took from past print orders, which I included here.
The loss of the photo files has left me asking myself what to do with the prints. Losing them would close a significant chapter, yet keeping them felt wrong. They were never meant to be mine.
A few months back, I decided to purchase a time capsule. In my quest to chronicle the neighborhood, I suppose this project is merely an extension of the other. I picked Leap Day as the time to bury it.
As February 29 neared, it became clear that the photos shouldn't stay with me any longer. Their collection is the most complete way I have ever been able to capture my love for the neighborhood. Each portrait feels like a stanza in a poem and each memory a verse, building a beautiful narrative about what makes my neighborhood special. It may be the only way I can encapsulate my affection for Portland.
So, yesterday, I uncovered 100 photos buried in my closet and placed them in a 100-year capsule. I sealed the lid, and lowered them underground, ensuring this chapter in my life closes for good, but believing they will begin a new chapter in someone else’s life.
Surrounded by photos were beautiful mementos from many of my Portland neighbors. A knife passed down from a father, bottle caps from the brewery, a beloved Pokemon card, a book that never sold, and many private letters. Individually, they tell the story of dreams, friendships, and hopes. Most importantly though, they represent what makes us most proud, they tell the story of beloved community.
The photos will resurface one day, hopefully bringing someone else the same unanticipated joy they brought me. To whoever breaks the seal, I consider you one of the luckies people in the world. I hope the capsule crafts an unparalleled image of what makes Portland remarkable, the people who called it home.
