Last month, reporter Anna Clarke and I hosted a personal photo gallery and group discussion about what drives us to tell the stories of the people of Flint, Michigan, 10 years after the water crisis began and talk about how we work to understand the communities we serve. As ProPublica’s visual contributor, I focus on documenting the lives of the people in our stories through photography. Throughout history, photography has been a powerful tool for recording moments in time, providing visual evidence, and evoking emotions that move us to understand what is happening outside of our own. Here are some suggestions for aspiring visual storytellers who may find themselves in similar situations.
Ask, “Why does this story need to be told?”
Previously, Anna and I worked in Flint in various capacities: I interned as a photojournalist at the Flint Journal; Anna wrote the book Poisoned City: Flint’s Water and America’s Urban Tragedy. For us, Flint isn’t just news, it’s a complicated place full of real people who have been and continue to be denied appropriate resources and support. We wanted the public to know that generations of Flint residents are still living with physical and psychological challenges. By sharing how Flint residents feel about accountability, we were able to show how many feel betrayed by the fact that no one has been prosecuted. They also remain frustrated by the length of time it is taking to fix the local water system and the mental wounds that may never heal.
The photo report gave a glimpse into the experiences of three residents and how the water crisis has shaped their current concerns, fears and decisions. For about four months, I was in Flint a lot—visiting nonprofits, churches, after-school programs, and other places that are part of everyday life. I talked to incredibly nice people. Some wanted to help me; others hesitated, usually because they wanted to move on or felt things would never change. Robert McKatern, Teagan Medlin and Jacqueline Reynolds have given me a lot of confidence. They were able to open up and make themselves vulnerable because of their commitment to cultivating change for future generations. I tried to represent it through the medium in the photographs.
Be honest in your approach
During a panel discussion at a visual storytelling event at Totem Books in Flint, we asked residents to think about what types of stories they enjoy the most, what questions they’d like to be asked, and who they’d like to interview. We found a common thread of wanting to feel more connected as neighbors and fellow citizens.
We then flipped the exercise to try ourselves as journalists and get questions from residents. “Why Flint?” one participant asked us. We told her how we came to be passionate about the community and wanted to present readers with a multidimensional view of it. “Something about this place seems to be in people’s blood,” an attendee told us, and indeed it seems that for a city of its size, Flint has attracted a disproportionate number of storytellers — even before the water crisis. And yet some residents still wonder: What has changed? For the past decade, the people of Flint have been in the public spotlight not by choice, but as a result of a disaster created and perpetuated by government officials. So what does this mean for us and our responsibility as storytellers?
Transparency activities require us to also be transparent in the communities we document. Without transparency, it’s hard to build mutual trust, especially in communities that have experienced betrayal and little control over how their stories are shared with the world.
In the early stages of the project, before I picked up my camera to take any photos, I listened to the people of Flint and learned their stories, then let what they told me naturally guide the photos I took. I also emphasized at the beginning that I think it’s important to share their stories because people outside of Flint need to know that the crisis is not over for many people in Flint.
I should also mention that our stories go through many layers of revisions and fact-checking. From start to finish, I tried to communicate how the project progressed and made sure our sources knew how the story would be framed, how they would be portrayed, and how they would be quoted. After the story was published, I followed up to gauge how they were doing and later informed them that their photos would appear in our galley in Flint.
credit:
Rocio Ortega/ProPublica
Seek connection and understanding
The beauty of visual storytelling is that the story can always change shape. Let go of any assumptions and let the story take you wherever it may. Anna and I learned a lot from this approach.
We found that after a decade, many residents are still waiting for the changes they want to see. The flow of resources and attention that Flint originally received has dwindled. But one of the reasons I wanted to revisit this story is because of the people I’ve met and will continue to meet. The city introduced me to people who care deeply about their community and embrace each other with generosity, care and compassion. And I learned about many local programs, from the Flint Rx Kids program, which provides financial support for mothers, to Mackenzie Patrice Croom Flint’s Community Water Lab, which teaches youth to give back and tests water for free. While communities like Flint don’t need to be resilient, we can learn from them to empathize, advocate, and support each other in difficult times. My job is to take pictures, but I get a lot of fun out of making connections.
We ended our event in Flint by taking photos of the attendees for them to keep as a keepsake. One woman who told me she had recently been evicted said she was going to e-mail her pictures to her grandchildren who live in another state. It reminded me that photos are invaluable in many aspects of our lives. They keep us connected.
