Brittany Greeson. Kentucky Documentary Photographic Project – Bluegrass, September + October 2022

9/20/2022 – Laura Poulette, Madison County 

Laura Poulette has always been a creative person. The daughter of two creatives and “DIY’ers,” she says she learned to be resourceful early on. She grew up in eastern Pennsylvania and originally went to school to study architecture. However, she quickly realized the school wasn’t a good fit. Her twin was a Freshman student at Berea College in Berea, Kentucky and raved about how much she loved the school. Laura decided to duplicate the experience. She didn’t really consider how she’d make a living with a degree in art, something she says feels funny in retrospect. “I remember other friends and other students saying ‘wow I can’t believe our parents allowed you to be an art major,’” Poulette said. Her mind gravitated toward fiber art and textiles. She had done various installations and was stretching herself various directions. She met her now-husband Strider, a Kentucky Forest Ranger, and former Berea student and they quickly wed after she graduated. From the beginning they shared an interest in “creating a life from scratch.” Strider’s mother was also a DIY’er and a creative. She owned a stretch of land and had a pottery studio. Part of that land, about 19 acres outside of Berea, was given to Strider and Laura to begin crafting a shared vision. They built a tiny house where Laura, Strider and their two children resided until around 2016. The space was only 300 square feet and they used a composting outhouse. They did laundry at the laundromat. Then they decided to DIY the conventional stick frame construction that is now their 1200 square foot home. Laura’s parents helped with a loan to help with the initial build but she estimates about 80 percent of its construction was done by their hands. They kept in mind how to work with the environment around them. Which way the sun would rise so as to warm the interior and point the windows. How that sunlight would warm the concrete slab they poured as floors. And the house needed to have a story. Its siding is made with lumber from the Berea College Forest. It was horse logged and the lumber was sawed locally by a neighbor on a nearby hillside. That first home, though, lent itself to Laura and she still wanted to develop her creative practice. It’s now her studio.

On the plot of land they’ve called home, Laura found herself connecting with the native flora and fauna. She had spent years away from her art making to raise her children and work on their home. In 2013, she wanted to restart making creative work for a living and decided to shift from fiber work to work that she felt was more accessible for the region she lived in. Her work started as observations of the plants she’d see. She’d grown up gardening with her parents. 

“Being grounded in this space by learning about the plants was a very natural thing for me.” 

Laura started painting with watercolor. The medium was initially unappealing to her but she already had the water colors on hand. “A cheap little travel set.” 

Again, she’s resourceful. Finally, she noticed her work’s commercial potential. 

“I noticed that some of the plant elements looked like letters of the alphabet and so I painted an alphabet with things that I found – it was in the fall – So I used all different native plants, little scraps of leave and twigs and painted an alphabet with all Fall things and then I was like, well now I’ve done one for the Fall I need to do one for every other season of the year.” From there, around 2016, she decided to pursue a business. Also around the time that her children were able to attend public school full time and she could focus on creating a full-time job. It only took about a year or two for her business art making to provide half of her family’s income. While Laura has attended various prestigious art residencies and programs throughout the country, she talks about how important it still is to her to make art that her neighbors can afford. She has different price points for her original framed work, which may appeal to one kind of buyer, and for her reproductions which may appeal to an everyday person. 

Laura has also been able to become part of a growing community of women in crafts and the arts. We talked in depth about how often women’s creative work is not taken as seriously as men’s. How one may view her work painting the intricacies of these various plant and insect species as fickle. However, Laura hopes to break the stigma around that through her discussion of money and how she’s also been able to carve out a sector of the arts and crafts market. Today, she also teaches workshops on how to work with watercolors, botanical illustration, and nature journaling. And like her home, which she points out is still unfinished, there’s always work to be done. While she feels grateful for the ability to create for a living, it’s still at the end of the day her job. Given the ability to have endless free time, Laura would find herself among the creatures and plants she depicts. 

9/21/2022 – Henderson Crickets, Lancaster, Garrard County 

Jeff Collins greeted me in the dark doorway of the large building made adjacent by a short side walk to his home. The space was the size of about two double-wide trailers back to back. The air immediately smelled of corn feed and a harmony of chirps filled in the space between his words. I’d be meeting thousands of Jeff’s crickets, Acheta domesticus, or the common brown house cricket. He led me inside the narrow corridor to a space with vinyl flooring, an array of shelves and a large wooden box to the side. His wife Vicki was on a phone call with a client to our left in a room with paneling and a large, heavy desk facing the doorway. It was time to check in on the hatchlings in a warm room next to the office space. The room was about the size of your average bedroom with more of the long wooden boxes and narrow pathways between them. Jeff lifted trays to check on the growth of the baby crickets. They were looking good and just needed their water changed and some fresh food. Jeff had been feeding them an organic mix of soybeans and corn. This wasn’t always his life, tending to tiny beings day in and day out. 

Jeff and Vicki took over Henderson Crickets from a woman by the name of Elaine Henderson. It was the first and only commercial cricket farm in the entire state of Kentucky. Elaine had run the business, based in Lancaster, starting in 2007 with her husband named Leroy. The pair had retired from a farm in Florida but when Leroy became ill they started the cricket farm to help with medical expenses. Leroy was the one with roots in Kentucky and was from the Nicholasville area. The Collins’ took over in April of 2012 following Leroy’s passing. They were both from the world of medicine, Jeff had retired as an RN and Vicki was an LPN. They had never even considered the world of cricket farming until Jeff read about “some lady who had sold millions of crickets a year,” in The Lexington Herald Leader. Vicki was from Kentucky and had already talked about moving back after their child finished high school. Jeff started researching it and made several trips to see the operation and thought it might present a good opportunity for the pair to get out of the world of medicine. “It gave us a way to go ahead and move back home and still maintain a decent income and quality of life,” Jeff said. “I only gotta walk about 150 feet to work every day, that’s pretty handy.” 

They liked Elaine and became close to her over the years before her passing. 

Today, Henderson Crickets remains as the largest cricket farm in the state of Kentucky. Jeff believes there’s one other man in the Lake Cumberland area who’s operating on a small scale. The world of cricket farming is quite small but the crickets in numbers are huge. In 2022, Jeff estimated he sold between 12 million and 14 million crickets. The Louisville Zoo, pet stores, bait shops and people at home who have pets and buy direct in larger quantities are his main clients. He’s heard about the human consumption markets as food producers look for climate friendly protein options, but that invites a whole new host of protocols. Plus, the general population hasn’t become too keen on eating insects yet. Jeff and Vicki have to work around the clock as the crickets need to be on a regular feeding and water scheduling. It’s also incredibly meticulous. Jeff  has to keep all materials as sanctuary as possible to prevent disease. In the mid-2000’s a rapidly spreading Densovirus wiped out entire farming operations, killing million of crickets. “There is no downtime. It’s like a dairy farm. You got to be here. Crickets don’t really wait on me.”

After 10 years in the business Collins will be pursuing other opportunities and have sold the farm to a new couple looking to try their hand at mothering insects. Starting in January of 2023, it’ll be called Bluegrass Feeders. Although they’ll miss certain aspects, the Collins’ are looking forward to travel time and seeing friends and family. 

9/23/2022 – A Day in Paint Lick – Garrard County 

I started my visit to Paint Lick on a beautiful sunny morning with plans to visit a culinary stand-out, Solidago. Chef Jon Baugh, a Lexington native who has worked in kitchens across the country including those with Michelin star. He wanted to return to his roots and bring something special to Paint Lick. He had cooked fancy food his whole career and he saw an opportunity for something different. He has the financial backing of the restaurant’s owner, an EKU biologist who has made his fortune from studying bats and pioneering a new way to track their migration. Jon opened the restaurant within 10 months of the pair meeting and although they operate on thin margins, Jon has crafted a menu built around sustainability and local foods. 

“My thing has always been: freshness of ingredients makes food better. I mean technique can only get you so far,” Jon said. ” (I’m) trying to provide for a community as well that doesn’t have a lot. There’s not a lot here out in Paint Lick.” 

Jon believes the restaurant is a way to give something to the working-class people. There are already so many great restaurants in cities but moving forward he envisions more people moving to rural areas. He estimates that most of the beef, lamb, pork and chicken are coming from at least a 50-mile radius. And a lot of the regulars raise beef and pork themselves. 

I asked Jon about how he’s tried to cultivate a menu that is familiar, featuring dishes like soup beans, but also dishes like gnocchi you’d see in a city restaurant. He gave me a great anecdote of farmers, the kind still covered in mud from their workday, who may have started visiting Solidago anting soup beans but have now ventured onto having a croque madame. 

“Its giving them an opportunity to try things they haven’t tried before,” he said. “I’m also trying to honor the heritage that is Kentucky but it’s not the end all be all. I love soup beans and cornbread but I also love making gnocchi and classic French and Italian foods.” 

Upon entering, I was immediately impressed by the size of the place, a very old and long building on Paint Lick’s main street, directly across from the small post office. The building’s tall ceilings, large windows and woodwork made it feel exceptionally airy and large for a place that specialized in lunch. Shortly after I introduced myself, Jon began cutting a round of fresh cornbread into small triangles and handed myself and Oakley, a staff member, a piece to eat. It was still warm, had almost a dense cake-like texture, and had a perfect sour backend that Jon told me was from using sour cream in the recipe. Other than my mother’s, it remains some of my favorite cornbread. Following our snack, Jon and I wandered over to a property Solidago’s owner also owns. The property contains a bed and breakfast and the owner hopes to expand it to include a small Christmas tree farm. 

We entered a small garden at the back of the property. While its garden wasn’t productive enough to support the entire menu, it grew enough to add flair. Jon began snipping off ripe peppers into a colander and some purple basil I hadn’t seen before. We chatted about how he uses the ingredients and the changing atmosphere around food. We had the sense that more farm-to-table cafes and restaurants were coming to Kentucky as consumers nationwide sought out an authentic connection with their food. Jon and I were in agreement, it feels good to know where your food comes from. It feels good to support the local economy all while reducing your carbon footprint. We had just an hour or two before lunch service and he needed to resume prep. A warm aroma, something like butter, now filled the restaurant. 

Prior to visiting Jon I had noticed and introduced myself to his neighbor, a woodworker by the name of Don Webber who had a large main street storefront turned woodworking shop and gallery. Don was 75 years old and had an extremely raspy and soft voice. It was like wind briefly passing through a small cave and you had to catch it with a careful ear. He also had a flat accent I couldn’t pick up on. His woodworking studio was filled with materials, tools, objects he had already made, books, and knick-knacks. There were only really small narrow pathways that he and his dog could fit. I asked a few questions about the items he had and he became animated, bolting from object to object like a rambunctious kid. He then showed me how he bent pieces of wood for a chair back he was making and bolted to the back of the space to pull out a hot piece of wood. Frantically, so as not to let it cool, he slapped it down between two presses to take its “U” like shape. The single-person-sized wooden boat he had to the side caught my attention and he confirmed for me that it was a similar process to the chairs. Don was a well-known woodworker, regularly appearing in trade magazines and local publications. Through our conversation I learned he moved to Paint Lick in 1996, three years after I was born. Originally from Llandrindod Wells in Wales, he started as an apprentice woodworker at 16. He first moved to the U.S. in 1972 and lived in Northern California for 25 years. His wife worked at the Paint Lick Post Office just across the street and he was also a blacksmith. His blacksmithing shop was around the corner and back diagonally from Solidago’s side entrance. I spent a few more moments with him, snapping portraits with his herding dog as he sat in one of his chairs. His wife popped in as they were set to head to Lexington to buy him some new shoes and we said our goodbyes. I think I envied Don. It seemed peaceful to work with wood all day just feet away from some good cornbread. 

Wrapping up my day I went back to Solidago and captured Jon at work. He moved through the kitchen smoothly and remained focused but cordial when I’d interrupt. The pace of work picked up, hitting its peak in the early afternoon. Most of the tables and chairs were filled by locals spilling out onto the patio space. It was my turn to order and I positioned myself in the back corner of the bar so as not to be noticed but I ended up striking up a conversation with two older gentlemen to my left anyway. It’s Kentucky after all, no one is going to let you eat your food in complete silence. I like that. I ordered what Jon recommended, a house-made gnocchi with a tomato sauce made with tomatoes from the garden we had toured. The basil, which added a perfect aromatic sweetness to the dish, was from the garden also. It was acidic and creamy, the gnocchi surprisingly light. Putting my dish away I snapped a few portraits of Jon in the fleeting moments between rushes of customers. As I left he handed me the only other thing I really wanted, a half loaf of cornbread. I tried to turn it down out of politeness but after learning it would only go in the trash I had to stop the tragedy. I ate that cornbread for the next three days. One day I hope to high-tail it back to Paint Lick for more but Jon has promised to share the recipe.

9/23 – 9/24/2022 – KY Peacemakers, Richmond, Madison County 

While researching Madison County, I stumbled upon a bar called “Sexy’s.” The bar was also known as a local biker bar and I knew I had to check it out. I was in high hopes I’d find a rowdy bunch of new friends. Following a local performance of Alice in Wonderland I waltzed in and only found a group of 4 people chatting with the bartender. I had missed bike night but it turned out that she was also the owner and her husband, Patrick, was a member of the Peacemakers, a Kentucky-based motorcycle club. After chatting for a bit with the group, Patrick joined in. They were excited about the project and he invited me to photograph the group at their clubhouse before they planned to ride a few hours away to Paintsville. I arrived in the early afternoon to a large two-story garage-like space. The walls were decorated with peacemaker memorabilia from top to bottom, old photos of men in jeans and leather jackets, and a long bar sat to the left. Behind a pool table toward the back of the room was a large Trump flag and as well as a Confederate flag. Cheryl greeted me and I quickly introduced myself to a few of the Peacemakers, most of them tall, burly men in leather. I greeted Patrick who told me to make myself at home and photograph whatever I wanted except for a particular room that was only reserved for members. A slim man with bright blue eyes and a gray hair and beard walked in wearing a leather vest with various patches. His name was Bruce Tipton, he was 70 years old and had been a member of the Peacemakers for 49 years. Bruce was a slow-talker and very laid back, so naturally he immediately agreed to be singled out and photographed. I pulled him to the side to make portraits near the pool table. I did the same for Cheryl toward the back of the room and by the garage door to get a full image of her outfit. She was wearing a red bandana, the Peacemaker’s signature color, and a black vest paired with black leather chaps and boots. With the knowledge of the group’s history and that at 75, still being able to ride is a rarity, I was inspired by the concept of a yearbook photo. More members began loading in and chatting amongst themselves and I was warned of the impending ride. Patrick and I worked together to pull everyone together and I arranged the group along the staircase at the back wall. They all handled it gently and were patient within the window. But the time came for their departure and I stepped back to watch them load out in their complementary outfits and bikes. Once the final member hopped on their bike the guys lined up for me, revved their engines and took off like geese making their way south. 

9/25/2022 – Richmond Powwow – Richmond, Madison County 

Slate gray storm clouds moved quickly above the flat grassy expanse of Battlefield Park in Richmond, Kentucky. I had arrived early for the Richmond Powwow, a three-day event honoring local native communities headed by Janet Quigg, an EKU employee and the Vice Chair of the Richmond Powwow association. The organization was founded in the early 90s. A large teepee, at least over 20 feet, sat at the center of the staging area. Smaller white pop-up tents, hosting vendors, created a long L shape to my left. The wind was picking up causing the tents to flap loudly and participants who had stayed overnight were slowly emerging. We were waiting for the weather to calm before meeting in the center for a ceremony that would honor murdered and missing indigenous women. While waiting, I spotted a ginger teenage girl with a horse that matched. I introduced myself to Alexis Arthur and her horse named Flash. Flash was a bit older but full of energy. He was really stubborn too. Alexis was attending the Powwow with her grandparents and they had slept in the horse trailer and car overnight. We traced our way around the edge of the grounds making portraits. Suddenly, Flash burst into a gallop straight across the field off into the distance. My heart dropped thinking I frightened him or distracted Alexis enough that she dropped the lead. He had been irritated with the photoshoot as she tried to hold his head close to hers. But this was a more common occurrence than it seemed she said, and thankfully a fence enclosing a subdivision behind the park would keep him nearby. We ran over taller grasses and caught him gnawing away at rich green grass at the fence. His little adventure rewarded him with snacks. Alexis approached him and Flash seemed to concede as she grabbed his reins. The Powwow was about to begin so we headed back, I snapped a few more photos of them, their noses finally touching. I headed over to a circular arena of benches. There was an American flag at its center. CJ Wright, of Louisville, headed the ceremony as other women crowded close by. There was an introduction that felt similar in tone to a eulogy. She then began to read a poem while instructing attendees to raise their arms and hands to the sky above. 

“We remember the places where we stand

 and danced and prayed

 and left our lives

 hanging in empty lodges

 where we could not return.

We lift up our sufferings in baskets of clay. Heal them.

We remember the cries of our grandmothers and the sorrow of our grandfathers.

We remember the names of the two-leggeds and the four-leggeds and places of prayer, which are no more.

We lift up our memories in baskets of clay. Pour over them.

We remember those who have destroyed.

We remember that all people, everywhere, have known enslavement and death, from those who have no spiritual identity.

We lift up those who destroy, in baskets of clay. Restore them.

We remember the sacred hoop of which all of Your creation is a part; all people, from all nations.

Help us to touch that we may know.

Help us to give away that we may grow.

Help us to see each other as family.

We lift up our lives in baskets of clay. Connect them.

We remember your Spirit that makes us sing.

We remember your Spirit that causes us to dance.

With our hands we make beautiful things to celebrate you, Make us to sing.

Cause us to dance.

Inspire us to create, for love of you.

We lift up our spirits in baskets of clay. Unite them with yours. AMEN.” 

The storm clouds felt heavier to me. Moments later the ceremony concluded. Janet turned to her right to hug a friend tightly. She then rose to greet CJ who she also pulled into her arms. They gazed at each other then turned to greet me. There was a brief break with discussion of plans for the Grand Entry. A ceremony in which tribal representatives and elders would dance and sing praises around the arena. I hoped to photograph the event but quickly learned from an elder and younger participant that photography was not permitted. I, my family, and ancestors have always been guests on this land, so I was more than happy to oblige. I witnessed other attendees recording on their cell phones and cameras regardless.  I was then allowed to turn my camera to other dances, an immense honor. The way the performance felt both holy and personal was striking. You could both be the only person in the room and yet feel like you were rows back watching a final curtain. A young man caught my attention. He danced like his feet had been landing on these precise beats since he was an infant. A much older man in the distance, with long gray pigtails at the side of his head moved carefully and slowly, as though keeping rooted to earth. Finally, all were invited to join in a ceremonial dance and a few participants rose up. The dance was quickly interrupted with large drops of rain plummeting into us. We sought cover in a nearby barn. The rain eventually faded out but attendees and participants used it as a natural break. There was no rigidity in the schedule. I checked out a few of the vendors and decided to leave. I caught one last glance at a family seemingly at home in the rain. All ages, hair soaked, caught up in conversation and each other’s company. 

9/25/2022 – Lizzie Jones, Richmond, Madison County

I’m going to be honest. I met Lizzie Jones in 2017 when she was a senior at Floyd County High School. She is and remains the main inspiration for why I started documenting the decline of the coal industry in that region. I started because I was angry with her and at a country that had so politically polarized the coal industry that they had forgotten people in the middle, people like Lizzie. Her parents were taken from her due to declining health directly related to the work they did in the mines. Yet, it was their hard work that gave her a home and food on the table. 

Over the years she’s become more than a person I photograph and more like a little sister to me. We share an understanding of loss and a need to overcome the short hands we’ve been dealt. I carved time out of my schedule to photograph her for this project because I didn’t want a story like ours to remain untold. I didn’t want yet another narrative of young women pulling themselves out of hardship after hardship after hardship to be cast aside. The last time we spoke she told me how depleted she was but that she was strong. I told her she shouldn’t have to be. We shouldn’t have to be. I think traditional photojournalists think of this relationship as a boundary crossed. But this false notion of objectivity has never appealed to me. I promised to be fair and honest but what I choose to point my camera, or whose stories I gravitate towards, might as well be a self-portrait. Working on the Kentucky Doc project has given me a chance over the years to develop that self-portrait. In many ways, I wish I could have done more or been more open. But photographing Lizzie is the closest I get. It’s making a dual portrait of two young women who’ve had to navigate their education, goals and careers with little guidance and way too many hurdles. 

Lizzie Jones was a freshman in high school when she lost her father, Bill, to black lung and cancer. Her mother, Connie, followed, possibly due to a brain aneurysm, when she was a junior in high school. It took years for her and her family to get the pair a proper headstone. The first time I photographed Lizzie for this project she talked about how pitiful it was that it’s so expensive to die. 

She’s worked tirelessly since that moment and is now a student at Eastern Kentucky University in Richmond, Kentucky. Connie attended Alice Lloyd College for a BFA before becoming sick with a brain tumor. She worked at the mines as well as other jobs to put herself through school. Several women in Lizzie’s family worked in the mines actually. Lizzie’s mom often worked as a substitute teacher and para-educator but when Lizzie developed her own brain tumor and some resulting paralysis, she was unable to host her own classroom. Lizzie wants to honor her mother’s legacy but more so develop her own legacy. Connie was the parent who proudly attended Lizzie’s basketball games, gave advice to Lizzie’s friends, and encouraged her to get an education. Lizzie was also influenced by the teachers who cared for her after her parents’ passing. She was at her school desk the day after her mother passed. 

“I feel like teachers, at least in my experience, take on a bigger role than anyone. So I wanted to pay that forward and be that for any students that I have. Because they helped me out so much,” she said. “I had teachers that paid for the makeup that I wore to my mom’s funeral and the outfit that I wore to my mom’s funeral and I want to be able to pay that forward.”

She’s studying specifically to be an English teacher. “I’m really drawn towards how you can express yourself with words,” she said. “I’ve always been drawn to music and rap music and how you can use symbolism and parallelism.” 

Her journey through college thus far has been challenging. She’s having to navigate adulthood in a way incomparable to her peers without parents to call or ask what to do. She often feels there is no one to lean on and that she must bootstrap her way upward. When she calls her siblings, she said, it seems they’re too busy with their own hectic lives and aren’t able to offer gentle words or wisdom. 

Still, she’s dead set on continuing her dreams. Acknowledging how little opportunities there are for people like her from her home Towson, especially those who also don’t have parents. 

“I want to show people who I am and I’ve beat every odd that I can with all the power that I have,” she said with a stiff voice. “ and I want to show people that they can too, ya know with my memoir, with my life story…You just have to be there for yourself and show up and it’s hard as hell. 

10/2/2022 – 10/14 – Lee Nguyen, Paris, Bourbon County

Lee Nguyen was the first friendly face I saw after I arrived from a 7-hour drive from Detroit to Paris, Kentucky. I was a guest at the Paradise Inn, an expansive space on the third floor of the building that housed his restaurant. The building, apparently, is also one of, if not the tallest three-story building in the world. I accidentally booked the equivalent of a honeymoon suite through the Airbnb listing. Lee and I laughed about it as he guided me up stair after stair, giving me a tour of the space. I entered the room and it was almost the size of my house with a wide expansive view of Paris’s main street. 

It was around golden hour so I was able to study the way flecks of light touched the tops of the buildings. Lee gave me the rundown and pointed me toward an array of snacks in the fridge. He’d already gone above and beyond what most Airbnb hosts offer. He then told me he’d bring me a snack and rushed back downstairs. I sent my friends and husband a full tour of the room, still failing to wrap my head around what I had booked. Lee came to the door and in with white platter with a sampling of fried Asian and American foods. The platter was two hearts interlocked and everything was piping hot. Before he departed, he told me if I needed absolutely anything to let him know. What Lee didn’t know was that through a really small gesture he had given me everything I needed that day. I lost my mother in March of 2022 and it’s been the worst moment of my life. 

That September day on my drive down I couldn’t help but ruminate about the day I had lost her. I listened to a lot of her favorite music. I lost my dad when I was young so I was feeling a huge void of a parent’s love and support. It hit me hard as I drove toward Kentucky that I essentially had no family left.  Lee unknowingly offered me a slice of that. He could tell I was tired and hungry but he also treated me throughout the course of my stay like I was at home, even if it wasn’t my own. The night I was suddenly arrested for a crime I didn’t commit (see journal entry from October 9th) I felt I had a safe place to go back to. Where, if I really needed to, I could call on him and feel safe. 

But it would later become reciprocal as Lee opened up and shared the depths of his loss. He had told me a bit about his wife, who had passed at a young age from cancer, on that first tour the day of my arrival. I took in the photos and memorabilia when he fed me for free a few times during my work week. I had to check out the day after my arrest to hop over to Jessamine County. I needed to know more about him though and so we arranged a day for me to return and photograph him. When I did he emerged fully dressed up in a satin and traditionally Asian garment. We started on the second floor by a cabinet where he kept all of his wife’s pictures. Her name was Anita, the same as my mother’s twin sister. I had him sit at the head of a table nearby, her photos reflecting in the mirror behind him, and asked him to look on, to sit in the moment. His eyes welled up and mine began to also. I thought of the loss of these two important women in our lives. 

Selfishly, I thought about how my world would implode if I lost my spouse. I didn’t understand why Lee was so willing to be vulnerable with me but it gave me the space to be vulnerable in a way I hadn’t in months. I opened up about how I lost my Aunt, cat, friend and Mom in the span of 7 months and how much it changed me. We continued taking photos around the building. He had a mid-shoot outfit changed into something bright red. I made sure to get the memorabilia honoring Anita in the restaurant. After a while I felt we had enough and we sat down to have tea and food he insisted I eat for free again. 

Lee Nguyen left Vietnam in 1978 after he spent years under communist rule in the South. He and his relatives couldn’t live under the communist regime so they escaped in a little boat and stayed in the ocean for 5 days. He hoped to be picked up by any boat, from any country, anyone. After 4 days, no one came and he and his relatives landed in Malaysia. They stayed in a refugee camp for 2 years. In 1980, a church nearby in KY sponsored 5 Vietnamese boys, he was one of them. He was made to work in the tobacco fields. One of the first English phrases he learned was “what can I do for you.” 

“And I stuck with this slogan for the rest of my life, what can I do for you,” Lee said.

He feels the United States and many of its residents have given him a lot to be grateful for. All he wanted ultimately was to get out of Vietnam, he just wanted freedom, to become a good citizen he says. He cried the day he became an American citizen. 

He would later meet an American girl while attending school. Her name was Anita Jo, or AJ, and they fell in love very quickly. The pair got married in Hawaii on March 27, 2000 and a few years later had a daughter named Kelly Jolee Nguyen. AJ always said she was “blessed and highly favored” when asked how her day was going, a phrase that she’d continue even after she was diagnosed with cancer. She fought for 7 years until her passing in April of 2011. She and Lee had been married for 11 years and by the time Lee and I met she had been gone for just as long. Lee was hard-working and put a lot of energy into his career. At one time he had several restaurants operating in total. He always wanted to take AJ back to Hawaii but never got the chance. During one of AJ’s last treatments she remarked about how she didn’t lose in hair. At first she was excited, then reality set in and she started crying. She realized if she wasn’t losing her hair the treatment wasn’t working.  “You know, Brittany, tomorrow never comes really,” he said. 

Today, Lee hopes to share the love AJ had for others through his restaurant. A mother’s love for everyone so he phrases it, that was shown the way that AJ loved Kelly Jolee. Kelly went on to study medicine at the University of Kentucky and graduated this Fall. Lee is immensely proud of Kelly and hopes to take her to Hawaii to walk in the sand. We talked about time and how he’s learned to spend less time devoted to work. Ultimately, he just wants to live long enough to see his daughter get married and be cared for. He doesn’t ever want to leave Paris though, even if others encourage him to get out. While he has a home in Lexington, he drives to town everyday to visit AJ in a cemetery just a mile or two from Paradise Cafe. He refuses to leave her. Paris is his hometown so as long as it remains AJ’s. 

“I don’t know how beautiful heaven is. But I know AJ, I know my wife, she’d never leave her daughter for anything.” 

We visited the gravesite. I wanted to make sure to make a record of his devotion and Lee stood for me by her grave as though she had only been laid to rest for days, not years. As we drove away Lee remarked that still, despite his loss and heavy grief, he wouldn’t change a thing. He had achieved more than the freedom he wanted. He had achieved a freedom to build something, to feed his neighbors, to love tirelessly, to give his daughter a bright future.  “I have the American Dream already.”  

10/3/2022 – Quillin Leather and Tack – Paris, Bourbon County

My very first shoot of this expenditure into the bluegrass began at Quillin Leather and Tack. I arrived early after realizing the shop was just a few doors over from where I was staying at the Paradise Inn. The building, a modest-sized, open concept former storefront along the city’s main street, was the latest expansion for the business. Ralph Quillin, the owner, told me they’re the largest custom halter shop in all of the state of Kentucky. Seated in horse country, I could see why. Much to my surprise the shop didn’t have a pungent smell of leather, instead it was subtle, almost warm and oaky. I introduced myself and set my bag in a corner until Ralph was able to formally make the introductions himself, but the small staff didn’t need it. The staff was so steadily focused on the work in front of them and didn’t seem to find me too obtrusive. To my left sat two men pulling strips of leather through a large robust sewing machine. The machine looked to be in good condition but its heft and weight, appearing to be constructed of cast iron, dated it to the height of manufacturing. I’d later learn that one of the men, Jeff Scott, was the son of Penny Scott, a fellow employee. In what I expected to be male dominated industry, the room had more women. The youngest, Lindsey Puryear, 20, had on Doc Marten boots just like I did. And, I must admit, I made an assumption from the way she was styled, and that she chose to work here, that she came from my generation and the newer generation’s way of thinking about skilled work. I came of age at the height of the internet’s emergence and she’s never known anything but blue screen. Yet, because of that, more and more young people are pushing away from tech and pursuing trades where they can work with their hands, move, and learn skilled labor. It helped that making horse bridles has a direct connection to the region they all lived. I talked to Lindsey about the craftsmanship of their work and she agreed. She took pride in it even as she tediously struck at the fold of a leather strip to get it to bend. Ultimately, she was proud of the work she did. The pace of the room was steady but it didn’t seem that there was too much pressure to produce a certain number of orders. They wore comfortable clothes of their own and made sure to take breaks. The craftsmanship of the bridles themselves was impressive and precise. Fresh tacks, buckles and gleaned brightly as the bridles were transferred to the next steps around the room. Around noon or so I was due for Quillin’s showroom and secondary production site. It was a large old house at least three stories tall, with the showroom taking up the main rooms and offices in what used to be bedrooms. Employees creating the brass name tags worked in the basement. Juan Sevill caught my attention by the stairs where he carefully polished and stained in names such as Lucky Linus, Silver State, and Five Paddocks Mister Bates, for custom-ordered harnesses. I tried to imagine the various types of horses as they matched each name or nickname. And who polished the tag for Secretariat? 

10/5/2022 + 10/6/2022 – Akemon’s Barber Shop – Paris, Bourbon County 

My first night in Paris I was walking along the quiet and dimly lit Main Street when I peered through the storefront window of what looked like a combo of a guitar shop and barbershop. Upon entering I realized I was right. Nearly perfectly split down the middle, with barber chairs lining the left side of the long, narrow store, and guitars, banjos, equipment and boxes mirroring the same to my left. I introduced myself to the owner Joe Akemon and his wife Caroline. Through our conversations about the project I learned that a couple of photographers had come through the shop and Joe would regularly host jam sessions at the front with his friends. He wanted me to witness one and so we coordinated a day I could come back. I was invited to sing with everyone, he said. I asked him if he wanted to keep that large long mirror behind the barber’s chairs. The sky was turning a dark blue and I knew I wanted more time to get to know the streets before it got too dark. Joe was incredibly inviting and said I could stop in whenever. I took him up on that two days later as the sun set once again. I noticed the warm glow of the barbershop lights and Caroline giving a customer a trump. Joe had an array of tomatoes for sale sitting outside on the sidewalk and I snapped a few pictures of them. I made my way inside like I was returning to a friend’s house. There sat Joe, comfortable and as though he never left the first night we met, in a green recliner chair positioned at the base of one of the sinks. Caroline was fixated on her scissors tracing neatly around a middle-aged man’s head. I’d find out later as we chatted while I was taking photos that his wedding was coming up. The room was quiet other than the sound of beard trimmers and a flat screen tv playing what appeared to be a soap opera at mid-volume. The pair were good at letting me pace the room to find the right angle. As I lifted my eye to my viewfinder Joe drifted off to sleep. I tried not to laugh, not that I found it odd that Joe was sleeping, but that strangers can be so trusting and accommodating. I’d only met these folks for 30 minutes beforehand and he felt safe enough to nod off with me towering over him in the corner. Eventually the sound of the TV or Caroline’s movement shook him awake and I pretended not to notice. We confirmed the time he’d have friends over for the morning jam session and I left the pair in peace for the night. 

I arrived for the Thursday morning jam session right at 11 am. Joe’s tomatoes were still outside and it didn’t appear many had sold yet. That, or he had the same problem many other Kentuckians were reporting – tomato overload. There were three men who accompanied Joe that day for his jam session. Clyde Newcomb, 85, of Lexington, Pat Hill, 65, of Cynthiana, and “Chilly” Charlton Cox, 83, of Paris. Chilly’s smile touched his ears when I introduced myself. There was only a short pause as they gathered themselves and they immediately launched into some old bluegrass and folk songs. Pat was on the Banjo, Chilly on the acoustic guitar and every so often Clyde, a first-timer to the jam session, would chime in on his harmonica. Joe was finishing up a haircut for a customer so his contribution was to nod, tap and glance over in between trims. Finally, during a short lull between customers he was able to join. Joe found his place naturally and kicked off the next couple of songs. In between making photos I found myself in place with the semi-circle and tapped my foot along. Noticing I was enjoying myself, Pat’s wife offered to take photos of me on my cell phone. We joked about how I’m hardly ever in front of the camera but behind it. At least a full hour went by of the men filling the room with strings and lyrics. I had to leave to meet another person and thanked the men for the private concert. Luckily, no one put me in the spotlight and asked me to sing. Joe’s mirror would stay standing. 

10/8/2022 – Georgetown Pride Festival – Georgetown, Scott County

The Georgetown Pride Festival and Community cookout was the first time in recent history Georgetown had hosted their own Pride festival. Small tents with local businesses and activities lined the sidewalks at Royal Spring Park. An array of food laid out on a picnic table under the large shelter at the parks center. It was a calm, bright and warm afternoon and all ages were in attendance. On a plot of grass across from the shelter kids and adults played with a giant bubble maker and the bubbles, usually a foot in width, would travel a yard or two before popping above someone’s head. I ran into a group of kids that appeared to be at least middle school age. Their sense of style, one that played with usual gender norms and incorporated bright colors with punk accessories drew my attention. It brought me back to when I was that age. Owensboro, Kentucky in the mid-2000s was not nearly as accepting. There were folks fighting for gay rights and rainbow wristbands to show pride were slowly catching on at school. However, the environment was still hostile and full of slurs, especially toward my best friend who learned it was safer to grow a thick skin and stayed closeted. I myself didn’t come to terms with being queer until I was in college. Yet, my own struggle with identity and the blatant homophobia in the church was the driving reason why I began to doubt Christianity. These kids felt free in a way I wish my generation had experienced and to see older faces in this crowd gave me so much hope of progress. What better an ode to that history I thought than tracking down some of the eldest LGBTQ couples in attendance. Specifically, those that had been together before the Supreme Court upheld gay marriage. I felt so fortunate to then be introduced to 62-year-old Harold Dean Jessie and his 52-year-old partner Steven Wigelsworth, both of Georgetown. The pair have been together for 12 years and they were the first gay couple to ever be married in Georgetown. I was on the Supreme Court steps on assignment for my internship at The Washington Post. I still view it as one of the best days of my life. For Harold and Steven though, it was the start of a new life. They rushed down to the courthouse the day after. While recounting the story, the pair laughed about the reaction of the secretary who didn’t even have the right paperwork for their marriage license. She had to write it up manually but they were still able to get hitched. They’ve now been married seven years and are leaders in the LGBTQ+ community in Georgetown. They suggested another couple to me, 58-year-old Susie Fight and 56-year-old Beverly Chandler, both of Georgetown. They also got married immediately after the Supreme Court ruling and have been together for about 11 years. Both couples represent a growing demographic of seniors who have known a time before and after that landmark decision. To have witnessed and photographed their love in Kentucky was a great honor. 

10/9/2022 – My Run-in with the Bourbon County Police – Paris, Bourbon County

I was interested in the neighborhood surrounding the waste transfer station in Paris, Bourbon County. Our research showed that Governor Beshear had recently approved $2 million to move it after resident complaints of its pollution for years and environmental racism. 

I parked at a park nearby so that I would be out of the way and wouldn’t park in front of someone’s house. I walked by several streets when I noticed a sheriff’s car circle around the neighborhood a couple of times and thought nothing of it. An officer ran my plates because he saw my car parked at the park and I imagine found the Michigan license plate suspicious. I’m walking past as he pulls up next to me on the sidewalk. I kept walking, thinking the officer was either going to try to tell me I couldn’t take photos, a request I would find absurd, or he was looking for someone else. But as I walked past he got out of his patrol car and asked me to stop. My heart dropped. The officer began by asking me if the car at the park was mine, to which I replied “yes.” He then asked me if I had recently been in Jefferson County, to which I replied “yes,” and for my license. Our brief interaction led to him stating that there was a warrant out for my arrest in Jefferson County, Kentucky where I worked on the Kentucky project in May for a few days. He asked me if I knew about a trespassing charge and my mind immediately jumped to all the times I had stood on someone’s property line to take a photo. Most photographers have to some extent played around with the boundaries of private and public property, but did someone call on me I was facing this charge out of nowhere? My mind traced my steps to that week and I wondered if one of the venues I photographed a burlesque rehearsal at might have been confused, but it seemed highly unlikely. I hadn’t had a single verbal altercation with anyone and I’m not the confrontational type so I would know if I upset someone. When the officer then said he’d have to take me in, I felt a wave rush over me and a high-pitched ringing in the distance. I felt like I was going crazy. What? Me? Where? Where are you taking me? To the Bourbon County Jail I would learn. Already worn down from a difficult year with the loss of my mom and then days of work, I broke down sobbing immediately. I didn’t understand but I know I didn’t do anything that made this charge accurate. He put me in handcuffs and I folded over into the back of the cop car. I was mortified and concerned residents in the neighborhood had noticed the whole debacle. I immediately called my husband who was back at home building a shed with his best friend. He didn’t answer, likely due to a loud sound of a drill or saw. I rang his best friend who upon hearing my broken voice passed the phone to Tyler. “What, why! How” he exclaimed. I only had a short amount of time to relay the information the officer was telling me, which became jumbled in my head, and recant it back to Tyler who was then supposed to try to get me out of this. I tried to calm myself and took deep breaths. However, my mind thought about all the people who have died at the hands of the police, and that although as a white woman in this country I knew I was likely to be safe, that there was something inherently disproportionate in this power dynamic that put me at risk. They could do anything they wanted with me and I knew that.  If it had been someone else I’m unsure they’d meet the same fate. The officer was kind but firm and said judging by my camera gear and the utter look of disbelief on my face he believed I had no idea what was going on. As we pulled into the jail garage he pulled up my exact charges and helped me understand what I was facing. 

Turns out I had been charged with trespassing in the third degree at the hotel I was staying at back in May of this year. I’m confused. I checked in and checked out as normal and I hadn’t had as much as a verbal exchange with anyone at this hotel other than picking up and dropping off my room key. I dug through my phone and sure enough I checked out on time from that hotel. I had proof. I had my receipt, everything. But something was off. The officer explained to me I should have gotten a citation from an officer in person on May 31st with a court date because I also failed to appear in court. The failure to appear in court is what caused me to have a warrant out for my arrest. All the info they had seemed to have come from my Michigan ID and was accurate. So how did someone get it? He then explained that trespassing in the third is a criminal charge that normally comes after you’ve gotten into trouble for trespassing before. My original citation occurred a full day after I had checked out of this hotel. 

I texted Bob and Ted of the Kentucky Doc Project and alerted my best friends in the group chat with a photo of my hands in handcuffs. I entered a narrow room and waited to be buzzed in the jail. As I was patted down I noticed a pill on the ground and pointed it out to the jailer, a short African American woman. Everything and the order of such was a blur but I remember being taken to a desk where she answered a phone call. Judging by the tone and volume I immediately knew it was my angry husband trying to figure out next steps. I was told my bail would be $250 and that I needed to figure out how to pay it. Jails, it turns out, don’t have ATM’s and I never carry checks or cash on me. Ted would be on his way soon though to bail me out and I felt a great sense of relief. Previously, I had been told if I didn’t meet certain conditions for bail I could be sent to the jail in Jefferson County which I knew was unsafe. I had a short window of time to get bailed out. I was taken to a holding cell after being allowed to use the restroom which was cold and smelled. The holding cell had a short metal bench and barren white cement walls. I was provided a small blanket and told to stay put. Trying to calm myself I laid down, my knees bent and feet facing the doorway so I could watch any passersby at the door’s window. I thought about how badly I just wanted to call my mom again. I knew she would have dropped everything to be there. She was the type that would have threatened to burn the whole jail down to get me out. Her passing settled deeper within my mind and I took the moments to grieve her memory. I just don’t understand, I said to myself over and over again. The jailer came in to let me know that Ted was on his way but there would be a shift change. She convinced her bosses that I didn’t need to be formally booked, where I’d be completely searched and made to change into a uniform, since he was about 20 minutes out. The very thought of having to go through a search made me cringe. She came in to finally put a handcuff on my wrist but did so in a way where I could have easily slipped out. She said she was just doing it so as not to get in trouble with the new shift coming in. A few moments later Ted arrived and the new jailer came in to unlock my handcuff. Struggling with the key he noticed how wide its grasp was on my wrist and jokingly commented about how I could have just slipped out. I didn’t want to get the other jailer in trouble, I said. I was an easy prisoner. My bond was paid and I was handed my camera and lens pouch in a large plastic bag. Weights fell off my shoulders as I entered back through the narrow doorway out into the parking lot. Surprisingly it was still daylight. Ted greeted me with his camera and I held my belongings like leftover takeout but victoriously. We joked about me being a jailbird, a real convicted felon, and went to grab my car from the park. It sat unharmed and we planned to go get dinner at the Paradise Cafe where I was staying. Paradise, anything but that jail, was a worthy title. 

10/12/2022 – Pit Master’s BBQ – Winchester, Clark County 

I woke up early for a morning feature hunt around downtown Winchester when, walking along Main Street, I saw smoke out of the corner of my eye. It was a hefty BBQ smoker sitting on the street corner, its wafts of smoked meats greeting commuters passing by. What in the hell was a smoker doing out on a city sidewalk before most people have even had their coffee? I read the sign. “Pit Master’s BBQ.” It was the place I had actually called the day before for takeout and when I asked for only sides was met with disbelief. We ended the call quickly that night. And this morning, as the sun illuminated just the tops of these old storefronts, was the voice on the other side of the call, turning over the next day’s BBQ. I snapped a few photos of him working from a distance, but had a prior commitment so wasn’t yet able to introduce myself. I made my way down and finally met Kenny Allen, 59, owner and operator of Pit Master’s BBQ. Alongside him was __, his right hand and as Kenny would explain, the one who makes it all happen, that makes the restaurant run well. Kenny has owned it for 6 years now. He was stoked to have me join him for part of the day and I made sure to shadow him when he went out again to the smoker where a pork butt would need to roast for 12 hours.  Inside, several guests sat at small booths along a wall with a large map. The place was small but laid out for efficiency. Everything had a purpose, a function. The map had pins on it, I’d later learn, put there by guests who had once also sat in the booths. The pins spanned the whole globe,  every continent except Antarctica. A friendly-looking group sat at the counter.. It turned out that they were all strangers, united by grand jury duty at Clark County Courthouse. Holding his coffee mug in one hand, his other firmly planted on the counter as though to steady himself when he laughed, Kenny exchanged stories. His grin took up his whole face. Kenny found a way to interweave at least one remark about faith into each exchange. I noticed a tattered bible in the booth closest to the counter, his. After the lunch rush we finally sat down and I got to the bottom of it. How he got here, why, and what this place. We talked about generational patterns and lifting ourselves out of them. 

Kenny started working in restaurants, washing dishes at a place in Hazard, Kentucky. His grandfather worked and lived there for the Blue Diamond Coal Company. His father worked for the City of Hazard but came from Lexington where Kenny still has family. Kenny has family all around the state, in fact and he hopes one day his restaurant is also. He has a large family. Three biological boys and one girl but about 100gGrandchildren between his biological children and his stepchildren from his second wife. His first wife died of cancer in her 50s. The kids try to visit. Kenny is also mindful about family in a metaphorical sense, about establishing his restaurants as a place where people can come in for help or feel cared for. And he’s the first person in his family to even own a restaurant. We kept “I broke that generation…whatever you want to call it a curse or a blessing.” He said.

“Everything starts at your house.” He learned to cook from watching the matriarchs in his family. Then when covid swept the nation, as many businesses went over, Kenny said  he actually ended up making more money than he had in his entire life. He feels the community got behind him and that God blessed him. He’s a minister in his church but the business is his pulpit. “Anything I put my hand on to god has blessed me with.” 

Pit Master’s is just bigger than a restaurant to him. He liked it when I asked him if it was. We joked about how it could be his slogan. A banner above the restaurant’s door.  Ultimately, he wants to keep things simple. His menu and the way folks treat each other. 

“What I want to leave when I’m gone is that they know God and that they knew my character,” he said.