Now and then, someone will ask me what it’s like to photograph at night in Baltimore. Usually, it’s out of genuine curiosity, and sometimes I get the sense they’re expecting tales of danger—maybe envisioning the city through the lens of The Wire.
The truth is actually much more interesting.
The Blessing
Every word of this story is true. I have proof, but I can't show you. You'll understand why.
There exists a particular melancholy in returning to a place one has known well, only to discover that both the place and oneself have shifted in imperceptible but fundamental ways. Such was my circumstance upon returning to Baltimore in 2020, after an absence of nearly a decade. My confidence as a photographer had withered.
One midnight, desperate to shake the feeling of failure, I grabbed my gear and convinced my wife Cait—seven months pregnant at the time—to come along for a long-exposure shoot. We ended up near Greenmount Cemetery, where I was photographing the faded CLUB LARAE sign.
I had just begun a long exposure when a white truck passed through my frame. What followed was one of those moments that, even as it unfolds, seems to possess the quality of a half-remembered dream. The truck turned, deliberately, and sped toward where I stood.
The driver, an older gentleman wearing a beanie and sunglasses emerged with an urgency that suggested he had been looking for someone precisely like me. His questions came in rapid succession: what was I photographing, why this particular building, was I shooting digital or film?
Before I could fully process the situation or muster a response, he produced a Canon SLR from his passenger seat and, without ceremony, took my photograph. Next came a weathered photo album—inside were a collection of 4x6 prints featuring local women in provocative Santa Claus attire, each draped over cushiony beds or shag carpets. “I used to take photos here in the neighborhood back in the day,” he said.
Then he cocked his head to one side. He told me he had something for me: the Juice of Good Photography. But there was a catch. To earn it, I’d have to pass a test. If I succeeded, he promised, I’d never again take a bad photo. I thought about all the things I felt lacking: my vision, my groove, and my photographic mojo.
The test? I had to sing, and I had to take a portrait I would swear never to share.
Once upon a time in high school, I worked at Finish Line at the Valley Mall in Hagerstown, MD. From 2003 to 2004, I spent countless shifts pushing Timberlands and Phat Farms while the store playlist drilled every hit of the year into my brain. So when the sound of steel drums began pouring from his truck stereo, I was seventeen again. The words didn’t come from within. They came from across time and space.
The opening bars of P.I.M.P. by 50 Cent filled the night air.
“I don’t know what you heard about me…” The man joined in, his voice rasping and oddly harmonious with mine. It wasn’t just a duet; it was a moment suspended outside of logic, as if the universe had arranged a cosmic karaoke session just for us. When the song ended, he clapped me on the back, declared the Juice was mine, and posed for his portrait. “You can never share this with anyone, or the Juice is gone. Remember that.” Then, without another word, he climbed back into his truck and disappeared into the night.
I walked back to the car, where Cait had been watching the whole thing with wide eyes. “What just happened?” she asked. “I have no idea,” I said.
A few weeks later, we were driving down Edmondson Avenue when Cait spotted a man walking with a ferret sticking out of his coat pocket.
Normally, I would have felt some trepidation or self consciousness in approaching such a subject. But this time, something was different. I felt it—the Juice. Without hesitation, I parked, grabbed my camera, and walked straight up to him.
That photo—one I can show you—is as close to a perfect photograph I feel I’ve ever taken. It’s one of my favorites from my archive. To me, it’s proof the Juice works. Since that night, my confidence has returned, and my work has never been clearer.
The Curse
A few weeks ago, I was out taking photos with Patrick Joust on a foggy, gloomy night. We chased the fog across town, winding through neighborhoods and alleys, until we found ourselves in West Baltimore’s Shipley Hill. The streets were eerily quiet, the fog hanging low, giving everything a ghostly, otherworldly feel.
We stopped when we saw an old, rusted Pontiac parked along a wooded lot, its frame nearly swallowed by the mist. It was the kind of scene that begged for a long exposure, so we set to work.
As we were deep into the shot, a man emerged from a nearby garage. He didn’t look pleased to see us. His face was grim, his posture tense. As he walked toward us, something about him seemed familiar, though I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. Then it hit me—I’d photographed him in this very area some time ago. The memory was sharp, but the name escaped me.
Instead of calling him by his name—James—I greeted him with a casual “Oh hey, John.” The words slipped out before I could think. And that was all it took.
His face twisted in anger. “I remember you,” he said, his voice low, tight with frustration. “You don’t forget my face. But you forgot my name?” He stopped just short of us, demanding we leave, telling us to get away from his house, his street.
I apologized immediately, trying to explain that I wasn’t trying to disrespect him—that I just had trouble recalling names. I meant no harm. But it didn’t help.
Then he leaned in, eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “My name is James. Don’t forget it. I’ll tell the crows. The crows will make sure you don’t forget.” He pointed toward the abandoned Eigenbrot Brewery building up the street. “My name is James. Remember that. Don’t disrespect me again.”
We didn’t waste another moment. Patrick and I quickly walked back to the car, not daring to look back. It was an unsettling exchange, but we were thankful that all we got for our trouble was an earful.
The next day, as I stepped into the backyard to get some fresh air, I saw them. All along the bare tree tops, the rooftops of nearby homes, circling in the air—countless crows. Crows in Baltimore aren’t uncommon, especially late in the year, when they fill the sky in large numbers. But this was different. They weren’t migrating like they normally do. They just perched, watching.
Since that night, they’ve settled around my house. They’re everywhere. The mulberry trees and the empty lots are full of them.
Anyway, if anyone has any clever ideas on how to combine these into something useful, I’m open to suggestions.
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The intro music is "Mana Two - Part 1" by Kevin MacLeod
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License
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michaelwriston.com / Flickr / Glass / Bluesky
I wonder if the wire helped or hurt the city? I've driven by but never put it on my to stop at list.
I was in Coober Pedy, Australia for a day and warned not to take pictures of the Aboriginal residents. The advice should have been to not have them in a picture a picture or maybe don't let them see a camera. There's a lot of rally interesting buildings including a church I wanted to photograph, the building not the people. From a great distance I took a picture but there were people in front of the church. Not moments after taking the picture a baseball sized rock whizzed past my ear.
Years later walking around Springfield, FL taking pictures of the old buildings and park. I waited for someone to cross an original cobble street and took a picture. I wanted the picture of the cobbles, not the guy. Well not long after an especially large man stopped me and wanted to know why I was taking pictures of his associate. I was not in footwear that allowed a quick departure but I was able to satisfy him that I wasn't a narc spying on him and his associate.
Always be double careful about getting pictures of people.
Great stories, especially the gift of The Juice!!! This guy sounds like Santa Claus, but I believe you!