Stage actor Phil Darius Wallace poses with his family.
Memphis photographer Jamie Harmon took to the streets and asked his neighbors to stand for portraits of life under lockdown.
Story by Jesse Davis | Photographs by Jamie Harmon
Islands in the stream — Puerto Rico-born printmaker Maritza Dávila-Irizarry with husband Jon W. Sparks, an actor and editor of Inside Memphis Business.
April 14, 2020
Photographer Jamie Harmon beats the empty streets of a quarantined Memphis — keeping, of course, a good 10 feet between himself and anyone he does happen to come across.
In the Bluff City, where gatherings are a way of life, taken for granted, Harmon, camera in hand, sets out to document the new normal. With his “Quarantine Portrait” series, he peeked — always with permission — through windows and into Memphians’ lives, capturing a slice of what life looks like under lockdown. The series is understandably somber at times, but the images resonate with an undeniable sense of hope. Perhaps paradoxically, there is something inherently community-minded in these photographs of isolated individuals. Many of these photos were taken before Mayor Jim Strickland’s “Safer at Home” order went into effect on March 23 — three weeks ago now — and before the lack of leadership from the federal and, particularly in the South, state governments became as obvious as it feels today. As such, Harmon’s quarantine portraits show Memphians self-isolating in an act of solidarity — stepping up to fill the void of leadership with individual sacrifice.
The rock house — Host of Rock 103’s “Memphis Made” program and bassist Catrina Guttery with Tora Tora bassist Patrick Francis.
By day, Harmon is the owner/operator of Amurica Photo and the shared art manager at Crosstown Arts in Crosstown Concourse, the newly repurposed and remodeled Sears building.
“Because I was working 40 hours a week inside of a building, I was not as mobile as I wanted to be. I adapted something I could do where I was,” Harmon says of his “Complementary Objects” series, in which he juxtaposes a seemingly incongruous object floating ghost-like next to the smiling face of some Memphis personage. With its 1980s style, the series is lighthearted, goofy even, and Harmon’s 180-degree pivot to his series of self-isolated individuals speaks to his wide range as an artist.
“Luckily, my kids are older,” he says. “One thing I’m seeing is there are so many people stuck at home with younger kids or people with disabilities that had a routine. Now their routines are broken, and routines are pretty important to a lot of people. My routines have always been pretty adaptable or chaotic or whatever you want to call it. The routine of chaos is fine with me.” The photographer hopes his brief visits outside of people’s homes can help break the oppressive monotony of a seemingly endless day, stretching on without distractions from the outside world. “The people who are sitting at home wondering what to do and maybe have little kids, this breaks that day up.”
Filmmakers Chris McCoy and Laura Jean Hocking have been practicing social distancing for weeks, long before the practice was officially mandated.
Congressman Steve Cohen has remained active while isolating, hosting a telephone town hall about the coronavirus.
“It’s hard to explain to a 2-year-old ‘why’ and the concept of ‘temporary,’” says notable Memphis singer/songwriter Alex da Ponte, admitting that her son Oz’s struggles to comprehend the quarantine can be challenging. “He doesn’t understand why we suddenly can’t go to the zoo or go see his grandparents or play at the park,” da Ponte says. “It’s a big part of his world that is suddenly off limits. We bought a couple bags of sand and made him a sandbox with his kiddie pool in the backyard. Little things like that have helped.” Doubtless, Harmon’s visit was a welcome distraction; Oz, who will turn 3 in June, can be seen hamming it up with a big smile in some photos in the series. In others, he is either dutifully ignoring the thin, bearded stranger with a mobile light setup and a telephoto lens, or is digging into the role of studious toddler, coached by his mothers, staring at an open coloring book.
Karen Mulford, her son Oz, and wife, singer/songwriter Alex da Ponte
“We were empty nesters. We had two college kids come home, and we’re living in a way we never thought we would again,” says Robbie Johnson Weinberg, the owner, creator, and longtime manager of Eclectic Eye, an optometry business. “We’re just living in this weird, unknown space.” Weinberg says that, with uncertainties mounting — about her business and its employees, about her kids’ education and careers — the family has had to adapt. They’ve been creative, though, and have introduced a safe word into the family lexicon. Now, when talk of the nebulous future gets too dire, anyone can, with a shout of “cactus,” compel the family to change the subject and find a way out of prickly territory.
Michael Weinberg, Robbie Johnson Weinberg, and kids. “We were empty nesters. We had two college kids come home and we’re living in a way we never thought we would again.” Robbie Johnson Weinberg says.
For Harmon, one of the most exciting aspects of the series has been the ideas his quarantined subjects bring to the venture. “In the past, it was like ‘No, you can’t get on the roof,’ and now it’s, ‘If we’re ever going to get on the roof, this is the perfect time for it.’” Indeed, the series documents people posing with their pets, clambering onto roofs, thrusting their arms through screen doors like zombies in a George Romero movie. “It allows people to get out of that shell,” Harmon says. “It’s kind of nice that everybody feels like they gave something to it.”
“I think it’s truly just a gift in these weird times,” Weinberg says. “To have someone like Jamie come and remind us that we’re a family first is beyond lovely. There’s good stuff here, just in being together. The fear of isolation is almost paralyzing until you realize there’s some gift in the middle of it.”
Guitarist Steve Selvidge with his wife Joann Self Selvidge and kids. Selvidge has performed with Amy LaVere, North Mississippi Allstars, Harlan T. Bobo, the Hold Steady, and more.
Memphis Zine Fest organizer Erica Qualy, seen here with a cat, a dog, and houseplants, has made a “free art” neighborhood scavenger hunt during her time in quarantine.
“My mom was worried from the get-go about being quarantined and not able to work, and I really thought she was just being paranoid. And now here we are,” says Alex da Ponte. “As of yesterday, I haven’t left the house for two weeks.” Da Ponte is hardly an outlier; to many, the new self-isolation precautions did seem like paranoia.
Even as news from Italy and China drove home the severity of the problem, as the World Health Organization classified the coronavirus as a bona fide pandemic, America’s national, state, and local governments adopted different, often contradictory stances. For many, the uncertainty alone is enough to spark a spiral of worry and fear. No one seems sure when this will end — or what the world will look like when we emerge from our homes.
Hardworking Shelby County Commissioner Tami Sawyer, of #TakeEmDown901 fame, takes a break from virtual commission meetings and answering emails to cuddle her cats.
“The rules have changed. You can’t go to restaurants. You can’t go to clubs or big parties, even outdoor festivals. All that’s off the table. So everyone’s walking around their neighborhoods,” Harmon says of the change he’s seen. “We walk around the neighborhood, and we all talk to each other on our porches. It’s that funny ideal of America as how it used to be. Now, granted, how it used to be for people who had privilege. At times like this, there are probably people who are worried about losing their homes, not so worried about having a picture made.”
Quarantined in the JAM House — housemates Jason Pulley (Tape Deck, Glorious Abhor), Alyssa Moore (owner/operator Move the Air Audio), and Mitchell Manley (Glorious Abhor) make music.
Like so many Memphians, Jungle Jeff turns to housework to keep the quarantine ennui at bay.
The pets don’t mind if actor/musician Billie Worley, Beale Street Caravan host Pat Mitchell, and their daughter Violet stay home.
“No matter what we do, this is a collective experience,” Weinberg says, articulating the truth made apparent by this health crisis and Harmon’s portraits. COVID-19 arrived in one of the most divisive moments in recent memory and attacked without regard to age, party affiliation, or other arbitrary qualifiers. In doing so, it put bright light on simple truths: A community is only as strong as its most vulnerable members, and the lines we draw to divide us often do far more harm than good. Harmon’s series makes that plain — the houses, duplexes, and apartment buildings represented are from various neighborhoods and income brackets. Harmon’s lens captures prominent members of the community alongside now-out-of-work service industry folk. Straight, LGBTQ, black, white, Latinx, Asian-American, young, and old — all members of the Memphis community, all willing to sacrifice their own desires for mobility to the greater good.
Sit. Stay. Shannon M. Bangham Dixon and family pose with their pets.
“People taking this seriously is absolutely a form of solidarity in our society. A lot of people who are staying home are doing so not because they think their bodies can’t handle the virus but because they are recognizing that it’s not about that,” da Ponte continues, admitting that she worries about her son’s grandparents staying safe. “I’m not worried about us, but we’re the carriers, and we have to watch out for our parents and our grandparents and our compromised friends,” Harmon says.
“He was offended because, in his words, he considered me to be family, and when I told him I was trying to self isolate, he took it really personally and said he’d never do that to his family members because he loves them,” says a source who wished to remain anonymous. She and her partner recently had a falling out over how to best prepare for the coronavirus outbreak, including how to self-isolate. “Ironically, that’s what he should be doing, if he loves them. That’s what I was doing, because I love him, and I love myself.
“I don’t think he’s reading as many articles as me. He’s not taking it seriously,” she adds. “So, turns out we wouldn’t survive the apocalypse … at least, not together.”
Toasting togetherness — Georgene Boksich-Cachol and Sal Cachola share a glass of wine.
“Everyone’s adapting in their own way,” Harmon says. Da Ponte’s wife, Karen Mulford, adds, “I wonder if people will view social interactions in a new light. Will we hug and handshake with new appreciation? Or will we shy away from it, a lingering scar from this pandemic? I imagine people could go either way.”
Perhaps this pandemic and our response to it will, like a fever burning off infection, help a nation infatuated with the ideal of rugged individualism accept that the world is interconnected, and only growing more so. After the cloud of coronavirus passes, whether we return with gusto to hugs and handshakes, or grasp a new greeting, there is hope that, however we greet each other, it will be with the warmth of family.
World of two — Tamera and husband Ty Boyland are quarantined together and provide a much-needed bit of levity with running commentary on social media.
Jesse Davis is a writer, musician, and DJ living in Memphis, Tennessee, with his girlfriend, their three cats, and several houseplants. His work has appeared in the Memphis Flyer, Memphis magazine, Focus Mid-South, Memphis Parent, and In Pieces. His awards include an Association of Alternative Newsmedia award for Arts Criticism in 2019. He is the host of “My Morning Mixtape” on the award-winning radio station WEVL Memphis 89.9.
Note: An earlier version of this story appeared in the Memphis Flyer on April 1, 2020
