dust bowl

text & photography Patrick La Roque

Maybe she woke up & looked at her life for the first time. The cruel, disparaging gaze that comes from shattered illusions. Maybe she walked straight out, into the crisp morning and all its bitter promises, without any regrets. 

When the tracks appeared she thought of immensity, of an endless path pushing through to an ocean at the end of the world. She dreamt of nomads & a never ending quest for solitude, for meaning. Something.

She found herself longing for boxcars & hobos, a silent community of lost souls moving through the continent like so many unhinged shadows. 

When the whistle blew she stepped onto the rails and shrugged. 

She had already moved on.

the hopes & dreams of an entire town

Text & Photography Flemming Bo Jensen

“Gentlemen, the hopes and dreams of an entire town are riding on your shoulders. You may never matter again in your life as much as you do right now.” – Coach Gary Gaines, Friday Night Lights.

Socorro High School, New Mexico. Clock strikes 7pm, the wind dies down, the air is dry and warm from another hot day in the desert. The Warriors football team and the crowd are pumped for Friday Night Lights. The local heroes emerge in appropriate epic gladiator fashion from the locker room under a clear sky. The national anthem silences the crowd in respect before the kick-off ignites the noise and cheering. It is game time.

While the hopes and dreams of an entire town may or may not entirely be resting on the shoulders of the Socorro Warriors, the feeling of support and community is strongly present. Twice I had the pleasure of standing on the sidelines of Socorro High School stadium and photograph the warriors. Have been an NFL fan for decades but never attended a live game, these were my first live Football experiences. Friday Night Lights with the Socorro Warriors. It was a perfect first two lives game. Still wanting to see college and NFL games but this was perfect. Being allowed to photograph from the sidelines, seeing and hearing the action up close, players run, block, tackle, smash into each other, feeling the community spirit and support, the coaches calling plays and coaching their heart out, cheer leaders working the crowd, kids looking up to their heroes, smell of popcorn, zebra stribed judges, runs, passes, catches, touchdowns and cries of joy and frustration. First and 10, hut hut.

Subterraneans & 67

text & photography Patrick La Roque

In 67 we take the red pill, swallow hard and slam
our collective head into modernity.
Wide eyed citizens awake to the world
at last.

I’m walking the sunken miles of a hidden city, watching tunnel
dwellers surface as I plunge, burrow as I exit
into sunlight, into geodesic domes & high rises built
for leaders of men.

I’m picturing the master builders, eyes thick and heavy from dreaming their stoic dreams of progress.
The architects, the politicians & giants of an ancient breed
willing to choke a river & birth an island
dig the soil to bury the city in a maze.

I’m picturing the blueprints to the dawn of all I’ve ever known.
This world ignited
in a quiet revolution.

running into darkness

text & photography Derek Clark

Muscles stretched and compressed as man-made sole pounded man-made surface under an italian sky, fading from blue to black. As the sun fell, the heart rates rose in the Moonlight Half Marathon. Over 2500 runners took part in the stamina testing event that started at 7:45pm on May 12th 2012 from Punta Sabbioni in Cavallino Treporti, near Venice.

There was a party atmosphere along the route, which made it’s way through the long flat streets in the beach resort of Jesolo, beside the Mediterranean Sea. Earlier in the day cars and motorcycles were towed away by police, making room for metal barriers. Bands played at the piazzas along the way and onlookers cheered-on the runners, inspiring them to make it to the finish line at Piazza Mazzini.

But not everyone would make it through the 21.1 km race. For some, dehydration and exhaustion would take their toll.

For some, the end game would come much too soon.

the district

text & photography Patrick La Roque

I shot these pictures in the northern end of Montreal, around rue St-Hubert. Many areas in the city have undergone or are currently experiencing a process of intense gentrification, creating odd contrasts, sometimes within a single neighbourhood. While this district has never been amongst the most impoverished, there is still a very clear cut between the mushrooming condos of Quartier 54 and the streets surrounding it.

Real estate projects such as these are often seen as a sign of economic health. But it’s a double edged sword: with every influx of wealthy condo dwellers comes a corresponding push of the less fortunate to the outskirts.

The question then becomes: where does it stop?


The district lives — breathing, teething, falling. Picking itself up again. Slaps on lipstick & eyeliner to impress new friends
the hip, the busy, the upwardly mobile
all storming the gates.

The faithful ditched by the roadside, pushed to the outer limits, banging on doors when there’s nobody home.

It lives to battle the sorrows of winter
in sparkly bright apparels
 & will give no quarter.

we hold on


We hold on. Through the thin, the thick, the unthinkable and the grandiose. We grow and we wither, breathing as one, fighters and poets and ghosts caught in a common interlude.

These are rallying points. Moments when we band together and push back, screaming, laughing.

We know all about faith and about equilibrium, the pull of time into some greying unknown. We know about the tides and the movements of the sun.

We know.

But today we choose to forget.

Chinatown etc | street. life. regeneration.

text & photography patrick la roque

Our parents would take us to Montreal’s Chinatown when we were kids. For children of the suburbs, this might as well have been Jupiter. I remember the smells, the ducks hanging in the windows, the tiny restaurant where we’d always stop for lunch, all red and black and bathed in bright neon light. We were in a new land then, everything alien and mysterious - beautiful. 

Eventually Chinatown was choked by the city’s evolution. What used to be an entire district was relegated to a couple of streets and alleys, given a plaque and a few token statues where tourists pose for snapshots. The Peking ducks dangling in the shop windows were deemed unsanitary by the type of stupid bylaws professing to move us forward, only really stifling identity and uniqueness. And yet… The community is still present, surviving between the high rises, hotels and congress center. The smells are more timid but still there, floating on a spring breeze like an old dream. Like a child’s rêverie. 

Last Friday, I needed oxygen and carbon dioxide all at once. I needed streets around which to wrap my camera and gather my thoughts. I needed regeneration. Without thinking I gravitated to those old foreign quarters. Before even taking a single shot a retired photographer came up to me, having spotted my X100. Soon, we were talking shop and Josef Koudelka, right there under a bright April sun. The tone was set.

I walked and walked, drinking in as many images as I possibly could. And it felt like a dance, forever moving, like cinema and theater, scenes unfolding, screaming to be captured and remembered. A freakin’ multitude waiting for the eyes of the world. Such a flow, such waves washing over me. The streets.

I stood on corners, sat on new lawns hunting for movement. I walked into a modern art fair and out again, wanting more. I watched and learned and reached for air in the lungs of the city.

Man, if I could only frame everything.