Sunglasses, the El Camino and Barbara Ann

October 08, 2020

Sunglasses, the El Camino and Barbara Ann

Vale, Oregon, resident Barbara Ann stopped for a long talk and quick portrait
at a pop-up street studio in July. (Photo/Rachel Parsons)

By Rachel Parsons

It’s not a unique idea – photographer Alexia Webster does it particularly well – but it is an elegantly simple one: a pop-up street-side portrait studio. Set up a backdrop and a seat on a sidewalk. Or in a park. See who wanders by.

I spent two months during the summer of 2020 in rural southeastern Oregon as a video- and photojournalist for the Malheur Enterprise, a local print weekly-turned-digital news outlet. When I wasn’t shooting small town swimming pool openings and headshots of county officials, I dragged out a piece of fabric-covered plywood and a chair. I borrowed a silk flower arrangement from the office.

The first time I did it, I set up in a large park in Ontario, Oregon. Only one young man who’d walked past was curious and eager to sit for me. The others I had to cajole. I set up shop not far from a large extended family gathering and needled a few friends, members of local car club, to let me shoot them. They were disinclined until I first took photos of the El Camino they’d just finished restoring that they’d brought out to show off.

Become a supporting patron of
The Peregrine Dame

My chair was rickety so as we walked toward it, I asked whoever was lightest to take the seat. I meant whoever weighed the least, but I wasn't clear and heard Angel Villarreal behind me say "that's me!" I was embarrassed when I turned to see the man with the lightest skin seated. I didn't want them to think that's what I meant (prejudice based on skin tone in the Latinx community is a real thing), but I was mortified, and they were so casual that I didn't try to clarify it and thereby risk bringing more attention to the point. Perhaps I should have.

They didn't seem to care one way or the other. The only thing they wanted to make sure I understood was that Marcus Rodriguez, the man in the white T-shirt, didn't usually run around in dirty clothes. He'd just finished putting the final coat of paint on the aforementioned El Camino.

Members of La Onda Car Club, Ontario, Oregon

Clockwise from top left: Ontario, Oregon, residents
Jay Mendoza, Marcus Rodriguez and
Angel Villarreal. Lovers of cars, family and tattoos.

Marcus Rodriguez, handy with a spray paint gun.
He allowed me to get close with the lens, but it took a few
shots before he would look straight at it.

Jay Mendoza was busy restoring a 1937 Chevrolet Master
Deluxe when we met. He was hesitant to remove his
sunglasses. It was worth the wait.

Angel Villarreal, family man and proud owner of the
El Camino.

The second time I set up, in another town, no one came. No one walked by. I’d pushed it out on the newspaper’s social media and the response was positive. But not positive enough.

The third time, in the same town, Vale – population roughly 1,900 – I met a woman named Barbara Ann. She walked past me once, muttering to herself and barked at me, or at least I thought it was directed toward me. Something about counting cars. She kept walking. Sometime later she came back by, in a considerably better mood (she'd been to church in the interim), and stopped to chat. She talked for two hours. Eventually she said yes to a photo.

According to census data, women are a minority of Malheur County's population, and perhaps fittingly, Barbara was the only woman who would sit for me.

Vale, Oregon, resident Barbara Ann. She of the
piercing blue eyes.

I can't say that none of the men who allowed me a photo have suffered hardship, they're humans, and we all have, but as with women in cultures around the globe, Barbara's life story seemed plagued with outsized privation. She has been through the loss of spouses, myriad health problems, and most acutely, the loss of a son to the opioid epidemic.

I kept telling myself not to call the project Faces of Malheur County, because what I was really thinking was Bridges of Madison County. I kept reminding myself not to objectify these people. They’re humans. Not architectural infrastructure. This isn’t my collection of faces, it’s a snapshot of rural Oregon, of the relationships and people who define it.

Jaxxon Melland in Ontario. Jax, as he called himself,
was the only enthusiastic subject I encountered. He
was in the park with his family.

A little more than a quarter of Malheur County's population is under the age of 18, and many will leave the area for work when they're old enough, becoming a regional export all their own.

Once I got set up in the park, I made inroads with the families of Marcus, Angel and Jay by asking if I could borrow a kid to do some test shots. They offered up Jayce. He sat still just long enough, but only just. There were friends to play with.