Stills

One of my favorite pastimes is walking up and down Fourth Ave. and asking strangers if I can take their portrait. Some smile and agree, some look at me like I'm crazy and walk away. This endless pursuit of documenting mankind, in all its beauty, has allowed me to meet some wonderfully interesting people, two of which are in this photo. To the left is Dean, who always seems to have a plate of food in his hands. He allowed me to take his portrait once and gave me the biggest, toothless grin I have ever seen. I go back to that photo on days I’m losing faith in humanity, to get a laugh and recharge my spirit.

Behind the man playing his banjo like a hand-drum is David and his dog, Missy. I saw David and Missy everywhere last summer–downtown, the south side, east side, I even saw him in Girdwood. Whenever I saw David on the side of a street with a sign, he was never asking for money, only a ride and usually to somewhere specific. I had to know more about him. So, one day when I came across David and Missy downtown, outside of the Egan Center, I asked him for a portrait and he agreed. After I took my shot, I inquired as to what he and Missy were up to that night. He replied: “We are looking for a ride to Chena Hot Springs.” I commented on the length of the journey and he just smiled and replied, “Oh, we'll get there.” As I walked down Fifth Ave., towards my next destination, I couldn't help but think that David, who probably didn't have much more than the clothes on his back and a faithful companion named Missy, was probably more of a free man than I will ever be.

Outside the Bear Tooth Theatre Pub on the night of the Full Wolf Moon.

While setting up for this photo I remember a young man standing outside the theatre, panhandling. I didn't see him at first, I only heard his voice from around the corner. He was speaking aggressively to a woman trying to get to her car: "Look, lady, you have to have something. My truck broke down. I'm hungry. I have nowhere to go ... I'm just having a bad night." His voice echoed with frustration. The female voice barked back, her words indiscernible, but I got the impression she just wanted to be left alone.

As I was walking back to my vehicle, I saw the same young man jogging up and down the street, asking people if they had a light for the cigarette he was holding. I was one of those people. I told him no, looking down and away as if I was trying to camouflage myself. He said nothing in return. I watched him jog down the road, towards Minnesota Blvd., and found myself thinking about how, just a few short years ago, I was in a similar place. Homeless, desperate and in the throes of active addiction. As I thought about this, shame crept up my midsection and into my heart like bile. I wondered, “at what point did I stop identifying with people in this young man's situation? Was it when I became employed? Obtained a place to live? A car? Or was it the day I was finally able to afford to go out to dinner and a movie with friends?” The answer eluded me.

I have pondered this question many times since that day, mostly at night when I lay my head on my pillow and try to sleep. I wonder if he found a warm place to sleep that night. I wonder if he ever found a light for his cigarette. I wonder what my reaction would be if I could go back? Would I look away, hoping not to make eye contact? Or would I let him use the cigarette lighter in my car and take a moment to engage him in conversation? Maybe I would give him names of a few places he could go that night to get out of the cold. Or maybe I would have apologized for allowing myself to forget where I had come from.

Ryan Chernikoff works in the social services field in Anchorage, Alaska. He is a film-photography enthusiast and spends what little free-time he has wandering the streets of Anchorage with his camera. His photographs have been featured in multiple Anchorage venues and online photographic communities. He lives in South Addition with his cat, Steven.