When I am asked about my work, one of the questions that often comes up is 'How much difference does it make that I am a woman?' And I have to agree that it does make a huge difference, that plenty of the situations I have been in would not have been accessible to a man, or if a man had been present the atmosphere would have been very different.

Right now I am working in Saudi Arabia and for the first time, in a strange contradictory way, it seems actually to be a disadvantage to be able to get so close. I will try and explain...

Much of society here is still deeply conservative and lots of places and events are segregated, including weddings where two separate wedding parties are held. So when you are invited to a gathering at someone's house, all the men are kept away so that it can be a women- only event. As the women arrive they take off their abayas (the long black gown all women have to wear here), their headscarves, and niqab (the face covering that many also choose to wear) to reveal fancy clothes underneath. But, they only do this because there are no men present and so taking photographs for anything other than personal use is strictly forbidden. At wedding halls they even ban cameras altogether from the party because, due the ease of sharing digital photographs, there is a fear that men might see pictures of the women uncovered and dancing.

If a man turns up at an all-women gathering, everyone will grab something to make sure that they are suitably covered for the eyes of men. This happened every day at the photography workshop that I was giving when the male caterers came in to bring the lunch. Any pictures taken at other times during the workshop would have to be for personal use only.

This led me to the strange conclusion that it would actually be easier to be taking photographs as a man, because that way you could be sure that the women were covered as much as they would want to be for the eyes of men (there are also some women who don't choose to cover their clothes and their hair in mixed company). As a man the limits are clearly defined, but for me the lines between my personal and professional relationships with the women I meet are blurry.

Not wanting to abuse the trust of the women who have allowed me to see into their private world, I am faced with an unusual dilemma of how to take pictures of it.

I have photographed many fairs in my time, but this is the strangest of them all. I am at IDEX (International Defence Exhibition), at the Exhibition Centre in Abu Dhabi, one of the biggest arms fairs on the planet. It is strategically important because Middle Eastern countries are big buyers of arms, but also because the fair is so well positioned to attract delegations from around the world. One is aware of the volatility in the region, hastening defence spending up the agenda of these oil rich States. Over 150 delegations have come here with one thing in mind: to spend their defence budgets on the latest technology.

The fair starts on a Sunday, and this is the VIP day. Even on the other days of the fair, getting in is no easy matter: no public allowed, all potential visitors vetted and accredited with great care. VIP day is just like that, with a smattering of the press corps. After the opening ceremony, with singing and dancing from local schoolchildren and the inevitable fly-past, the delegates start cruising round, on a mission to spend. However unlike most fairs I have attended, not one price is displayed. I imagine these prices are very negotiable, depending on quantity ordered and scale of commitment. One thing is certain: everything is expensive. During IDEX 2007, (the fair is biannual) $545 million changed hands. This year however there are reports that contracts of over 20 Billion US dollars are being negotiated.

Pictures from an event like this rarely live up to the moment. I often say that pictures from things like this are usually not good the day of or the day after. They only become good 10 or 20 years from now. Kinda like wine, I guess. But if there is a part of my job description that is actually useful to people, it is the historian part (I'll spare us all another discussion about subjectivity/objectivity). Maybe the pictures will be interesting later... I think they will be for me, at least. For now, the event itself was far more interesting than the pictures.

USA. Washington, D.C. January 20th, 2009. At the Inauguration of Barack Obama. © Christopher Anderson/Magnum Photos

Being in a crowd of 2 million people is a little disconcerting. And I don't like crowds very much. But everyone was very well behaved. My problem was that the Presidential Inauguration Committee issued a worthless credential that kept me and many of my colleagues out of the event for hours. seems the DC police had not been informed about our credential. On assignment for Newsweek I spent 4 hours walking from checkpoint to checkpoint before I finally made it in. Frustrating because I spent most of the event trying to get in rather than working. But I was glad to just be there. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but I have never experienced a sense of unity and equality among a group of people like I did that day. Not saying that it will last more than that day, or that problems of inequality and race ended when Obama was sworn in, but for a couple of hours, it felt like we got a glimpse of what it really could be like.

USA. Washington, D.C. January 20th, 2009. At the Inauguration of Barack Obama. © Christopher Anderson/Magnum Photos

Links
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum Portfolio
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum In Motion Essay "War in Lebanon"
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum In Motion Essay "Silicon Forest"
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum In Motion Essay "Bolivian Elections"
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum In Motion Essay "Capitolio"
» Christopher Anderson's Magnum In Motion Essay "Middle East"

Several weeks ago I took part in the World Press Photo Masterclass in Holland. I stayed a few days after it ended to visit some family that lives in Holland. The class had been really intense, and before heading off to my cousin's house, I decided to spend a few hours walking around Amsterdam to sift through my thoughts.

While walking around I randomly stumbled upon a parade. It was mobbed by young kids with their parents and grandparents, and the mood was deliriously festive. Curious, I approached the parade's edge, and inched in for a spot to see what was happening. A continuous line of many hundreds (thousands?) of Dutchmen dressed in blackface with afro wigs and brightly painted red lips were marching down the street and handing out candy to shrieking children. Some performed tricks on rollerblades and bikes, and they all acted like jolly buffoons, while the bearded Saint Nicholas (the Dutch Santa Claus) rode slowly by on his stately white horse.

My father is Dutch, and from my childhood I vaguely remembered him telling me about 'Zwarte Pete,' (Black Pete) the helper of Saint Nicholas. When my sister and I were young we would celebrate Saint Nicholas on December 5 by putting a wooden shoe by the chimney, along with cookies for Saint Nick and carrots for his horse. In the morning we would find a big chocolate letter shaped like the first letter of our name stuffed in the wooden shoe. But Black Pete was never really much of a character in our informal celebration of the holiday, which was really just an appetizer for the 'real' Christmas. I'd largely forgotten about Black Pete many years ago.

Saint Nicholas Day is celebrated in Holland on December 6 in lieu of Christmas (which is a quiet, commodity free event), and Black Pete is an integral symbol of the holiday. As Holland attracts more immigrants, Black Pete has become an increasingly controversial figure, although he is still largely embraced. Still, I only saw one family of black people attending the parade; the kids were having a blast, though the mother and father looked very disconcerted. In 2006 an effort was made for the Black Pete's to be covered in many different colors of face paint, but the effort was widely rejected.

Blackface has a loaded history in the United States, originating in the hugely popular minstrel shows of the early 19th century that parodied African Americans to adoring crowds for over a hundred years.
Now, it would be completely unacceptable to see blackface in any kind of mainstream use. Yet Holland, which prides itself on its tolerant and progressive politics and people, condones it despite its loaded history. I'm curious, what do you Magnum blog readers think of this tradition? It would be especially interesting to hear from those readers living in Holland.

Traveling by road is simultaneously one of the great frustrations and pleasures of working in Uganda. The only real way to get around is by bus. The journey starts early in the morning at the bus station, which is often a muddy, confusing collection of loiterers, vendors, opportunists, thieves, the unemployed, and a few bus company employees shouting destinations. The buses never leave before they are full, and usually they're overflowing by the time they teeter out of the station. Still, no matter what time I arrived, there always seemed to be a two-hour wait until the bus left. The best way to pass the time was to chat with the other passengers, who were usually curious and amused that a white man was traveling with them. Inevitably, the first question would be about whom I was voting for in the upcoming election. When I expressed my enthusiasm for Obama, the friendship could really begin. From there we would gossip freely about our job, family, relationships, politics and anything else to pass the time. Ugandans are generally very warm and open people, and there was always a lot of teasing and laughter. When the bus finally filled, the engine was coaxed to a start and it began a complicated dance to leave the bus park, weaving between haphazardly parked buses, hundreds of jostling people moving in different directions and shouting vendors eager to make a last sale.

© Peter van Agtmael/Magnum Photos

Life in Uganda happens very close to the road, which is often the only consistent stream of income for the small, forgotten towns that line the routes between the major cities. The buses stop frequently on the roadside, and instantly a mass of people sprint towards them with their goods, pressing them up to the windows and shouting prices. One time I traveled with a Ugandan friend named Salle, who insisted on buying something at every stop. First he bought a stick of grilled chicken livers. At the next stop Salle grabbed a jerry can of fresh milk, clucking happily at the bargain price. The next stop specialized in live chickens held up to the window by their bound claws. After a brief negotiation, Salle decided on a fat, frightened specimen, which he stuffed under his seat and for the next five hours flapped its wings and pecked at our ankles. Salle became very eager to eat that chicken by the end of the bus ride.

© Peter van Agtmael/Magnum Photos

Sometimes bus trips could be extremely frustrating. The roads are full of potholes, forcing the bus driver to swerve constantly to avoid them. But there are too many to avoid all of them, and when hit at speed the old buses give a mighty jump. I've hit my head untold times on the roofs of the smaller buses, to the amusement of most of the passengers who instinctively know when to duck.

On my last day in Uganda I was making my way back to Kampala to catch my flight home. I was coming from Karamoja, a remote region in the northeast corner of the country. There was only one bus a day leaving for the capital, and the journey was supposed to take ten hours. Four hours into the ride, we hit a massive pothole. Large chunks of the suspension flew off and the bus swerved to a halt. After a bit of surprised murmuring we debarked and sat under a tree. The driver pretended to fix the wheel by banging on it with a wrench, and the conductor carrying the fare money hopped on the one motorcycle in the village, never to be seen again. For two hours we waited on the remote roadside for any sort of vehicle, which finally came in the form of an empty truck heading to the next town to pick up produce. After a scramble we all managed to fit in the truck bed. From there we transferred to a minibus, which drove around town for another hour looking for more passengers. Eight hours into the trip, I finally arrived at the regional hub and found a bus going to Kampala, still seven hours away. Thankfully, that trip passed relatively uneventfully, and I arrived back at my friends place with just enough time to pack my bags, take a shower and head onward to the airport.

I present a selection of photographs taken on the road. On each bus ride I photographed constantly. I was becoming frustrated by the way mannerisms change when people know they are being photographed, and enjoyed the purity of relying on my gut, and having just one chance to catch slivers of daily life passing by.

Links
» Peter van Agtmael's Magnum Portfolio
» Peter van Agtmael's Website
» Interview with Peter van Agtmael on Conscientious
» Interview with Peter van Agtmael on Smithsonian

For many years I have been photographing some of the great tourist locations of the world, from the Pyramids through to the Taj Mahal. The bigger the honey pot the happier I am, as the expectation - as opposed to the reality - is always a good starting point for my photographic explorations. One place has always eluded me, but finally I managed to get to Machu Picchu, situated high in the Andes in Peru.
Whenever we contemplate that iconic image of this remarkably situated lost city, one thing is certain: there are no people around. I wanted to see what was actually happening at Machu Pichu, knowing how popular it had become.
Is it really as deserted as the images suggest?

Machu Picchu is not easy to get to, unlike most iconic sites in the world where a short ride from the airport will land you at the entrance gate. First you have to fly from Lima to Cuzco, and then take a four hour train journey to Aguas Calientes. There is no choice about this as it is impossible to make your way by car. Then you have to get on the local service bus and zig-zag your way up the steep mountainside to the entrance.

When you arrive at an airport early in the morning, you are never first there and you wonder where everyone comes from. The same applies with Machu Picchu. I was there at 7.30am, thinking I would familiarise myself with the site, before the rush. Already the place was packed.

© Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

However there was a problem, the view that I had travelled half way round the world to see was shrouded in mist. I suddenly thought that this might linger for the next two days and I started to panic, thinking I may not see the site at all.
I was not alone in this fear, as this is where the famous Inca Trail finishes. Those arriving in after a gruelling four day hike were devastated not to be able to see and photograph the view. However, within an hour the mist thinned and glimpses of the most famous prospect in South America started to emerge. Indeed this slow revelation was more dramatic and impressive than the unremittingly sunny scene the day after.

Between the hours of 10am and 2pm the site is at its busiest, with up to 4000 visitors arriving every day. Knowing how inaccessible this place is, it is staggering where and how they emerge. It is also not a cheap visit as each foreign tourist has to pay 122 soles (roughly $41) to enter the site. I am convinced that this entrance payment, together with the cost of the journey and the trekking are probably keeping the Peruvian economy afloat, as 70 % of all visitors are foreigners.

© Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Aguas Calienties, the town at the base of the steep climb to Macchu Picchu has one purpose, and that is to supply board, lodging and food for the visitors to the site. All tastes and budgets are catered for, from expensive and luxurious hotels through to the numerous hostels for backpackers, as the appeal of Macchu Picchu is universal. Twenty years ago there was hardly anything there, but now the town is really buzzing, as in the last decade alone, visitor numbers have trebled. There are no cars as the town is only accessible via the train. I photographed renditions of the view of Macchu Pichu as many restaurants, massage parlours, souvenir shops or whatever, use this as decoration.

What is it that drives so many people to visit, sometimes with great difficulty, this remarkable place? It has an appeal that must go beyond the attraction of the usual honey pot. It is a glimpse of a lost world, hidden from man until discovered by Hiram Bingham in 1911. It is one of the most beautiful sights on earth and is potentially about to become a victim of its own success as visitors swarm over the walls and terraces. Get there soon, as there are rumours that they will have to build a replica before the real Macchu Picchu is trampled to death.

Links
» Martin Parr's Magnum Portfolio
» See more of Martin Parr's Machu Picchu photographs
» Martin Parr's Books (Signed from the Magnum Store)

I had just finished reading the novel Norwegian Wood by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. The love story of the youngster Toru Watanabe who looks back on his days as a student at Waseda University in Tokyo and his relationships with two very different women - the beautiful yet emotionally troubled Naoko, and the outgoing, lively Midori. I felt so attracted to the environment the book was depicting and the emotions Toru was going through that one morning, I decided to visit the university myself, to see if there were any other Toru Watanabes around.

At this time I was living together with my girl friend at her grand parents old sushi-store. No one had been living there for years, but you could still faintly read the kanji characters on the front of the house....福寿司....Happy sushi. Happy sushi was situated just beside the train tracks. When the express trained passed (every 7th minute) all the shoji-doors started shaking and the cups started jingling. Anyway, I felt pretty isolated there because Sara worked from early morning to late evening, and so on this day, I decided to go to Waseda.

I came just around lunchtime when all the students were gathered in the cafeteria. Strong beams of sunlight hit the rows of students as they were enjoying their break. I spend some time wandering around, but didn't really feel like taking pictures. As I went out into the backyard, I felt that someone was looking at me, and I was just about to turn around, as a cautious voice spoke to me. "Who are you?" And there he was, leaning against and old tree and smoking his cigarillo. Not Toru but Yuta.

Yuta studied philosophy, and when he found out I was Danish, he was excited to discuss Danish philosopher Kierkegaard and his thoughts on love. Yuta and I spend the afternoon walking the streets, and we ended up in his room on the first floor of his grandparent's house. "My grand father hates me, but my grandmother loves me" Yuta said, and started cleaning away the empty bottles of vodka. "It is the only way I can fall a sleep", he said. Yuta was crazy about the Beatles, and as he unbuttoned his shirt and got ready to play his guitar, I started photographing him for the first time. For the next year Yuta worked with me as my assistant, and so we became friends.

Links
» Jacob Aue Sobol's Magnum Portfolio
» Jacob Aue Sobol's Books (Signed from the Magnum Store)

John McCain Supporters on election night, USA. Phoenix, AZ. November 4, 2008. © Christopher Anderson/Magnum Photos

» New images: Barack Obama Elected President of the United States

Last September, Republicans from around the US marched into my backyard - St. Paul, Minnesota. I managed to get access to the Republican Convention with press credentials loaned from someone I met at a demonstration (don't ask). Within five minutes of working my way through the various security measures, I found myself walking down the same hallway as Karl Rove. In a flash I saw my future before me. With one stoke of my carbon-fiber tripod, I could take this menace out. My photography career might be over, but I'd at least I'd make my mark on history.

Needless to say, I chickened out. So now I'm back to looking for more modest marks to make. After a lot of soul searching, my new goal is to breath some life into this blog.

Don't get me wrong; Martin Fuchs has done an excellent job as blog administrator. He sends out emails to the photographers and pesters us for content. And there has been plenty of fantastic content. But something is missing. I see the body, but I don't hear the voice.

In analyzing Magnum's blog, I noticed the post that generated the greatest reader response was one of the Photos of the Week by Christopher Anderson (read the post here). As is often the case, one reader offered some pointed criticism. But what made the post come to life was that Chris took the time to respond. I probably learned more from that dialogue than from a dozen essays on photojournalism.

What makes blogs work isn't fancy prose. It is all about content and conversation. So in trying to whip this blog to life, these are my goals:

1) More content. In 2007 we averaged 6.5 posts per month. In 2008 we are averaging 3.5. I want to pump more stuff through the system.

2) More conversation. Most photographers are busy shooting and traveling. They also tend to be a bit blog-shy. But I'm going to do my best to get them in here. I might be too scared to jump Karl Rove, but I'm willing to do my best with Martin Parr.

So let me start the conversation by asking what you want. If you ran this blog, how would you make it better?

I am in a taxi, stuck in a big traffic jam. I am on my way to Auto China, 2008, and we are edging our way along ring road 3, about to join the airport expressway going to the newly opened China International Exhibition Centre, where this event is held. There are six ring roads in Beijing, and except for ring road 1, which is a track round the Forbidden City, they are all four lane motorways.
Most of the time you are as likely to be stationary, rather than moving.

When you consider that private ownership of cars was only sanctioned in 1980, Beijing has now joined that super league of gridlocked cities such as Dubai, Sao Paulo and Bangkok, in record time. Beijing could soon become the city with more cars than any other on the planet. This year alone the auto industry expects to sell nine million cars in China, so you can start to understand why this event is taken very seriously indeed, by sellers and buyers in equal measure.

While car sales in the West are currently suppressed there is only one word for the Chinese car market, growth. This is currently running at around 25%. When you consider that 90% of families in the West own a car and in China it is a mere 6%, you will understand why the motor industry thinks that China will rescue it from a down turn.

The Chinese do not just love cars, they worship them. In the section where luxury brands display their latest models, the stands are mobbed. In this section you are not allowed to come up to the cars unless you look like a potential customer. But everyone gawps and takes photos, happy to have seen a real Rolls Royce or a Porsche.

Almost everything we buy in the West is now made in China, with the big exception of cars. But the Chinese are trying to catch up. There were over twenty Chinese car manufacturers at the show, Chery being the top of the league. This firm exports more cars than any other Chinese company. However, their main export markets are the ex Russian countries of Eastern Europe, and South America. They do not sell in Europe or the USA, probably because they would not meet the safety regulations.

Chery also make the cheapest car in China, the QQ. Sadly this was not on display because, as I was told " everyone knows it." This sells for roughly $4,000.

Taking photographs of the cars is the way in which the Chinese define their visit to the show. This process is all helped along by a lavish sprinkling of car girls. Such is the importance of the girls' contribution, there are competitions for the best girl in each show hall. Car brochures abound, and are picked up enthusiastically. Sometimes a queue will form for these, which will make the queue escalate; no-one wants to be outdone.

As a British citizen I took particular delight in encountering the Roewe stand. Roewe is the name given to the newly-launched Rover group that was bought by the Chinese a few years back. They took the brand, brought all the equipment over from Longbridge and have re-jigged the car for the Chinese market. The marketing is re-assuringly British. Britain now has no major car manufacturer at all. Such is the dynamic of the new world order, which like so much of life is defined by our love of cars.

Russia. McDonalds in Moscow. 1992. © Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

I came to Moscow in 1992 and photographed in the first McDonalds that opened here. There were long queues to experience this icon of the America. I still remember, with almost disbelief, the excitement and thrill of the diners. Now of course, there are Yellow arches everywhere here, and not a queue in sight.
Funnily enough, it is the only time I have been granted permission to photograph in a McDonalds. I have asked since, and always had permission declined.
This does not prevent me going in and shooting, especially in the likes of China, where being thrown out by a faintly embarrassed duty manager gives a certain thrill. And remember like speed dating, there is always another target just down the road.

Russia. Moscow. Millionaire's Fair. 2007. © Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Back to Moscow, where I am photographing the 2nd Millionaire's Fair. Talk about bling, the Muscovites have no hesitation in showing off their wealth. One can buy a helicopter, mobile phones encrusted with diamonds or an apartment in Dubai.
One suspects the really wealthy do not want to be seen here, but those that do show up on the opening night are exactly what you think the wealthy should look like. The women wear the latest label, the younger women all have glowing long hair, many keep their furs on, despite the heat. Champagne is everywhere, and never seems to run out, there are people rolling cigars and handing these out, canapés come at you at every angle.

Traditionally poverty has been the front line for the concerned photographer, I am happy to reverse this, and for many years have photographed the wealth of the West. These images will all accumulate towards a suite of photographs entitled "Luxury" I am convinced that the non stop growth and the wealth we create has many problems associated with this.
The Millionaire's Fair is in Krokus Park, an exhibition Centre about 20 KM from the centre of Moscow. Getting there can take up to 2 hours, when I return late at night, it takes 25 min, such is the congestion on Moscow's roads.
The next stop on this wealth tour is the Chinese Motor show in Beijing next April. I must get a hotel where I can walk there, rather than being stuck in traffic.

This is an important petition for all photographers and filmmakers in New York. If this governs a precedent it might become important for photographers all around the world. Please read the petition and sign it if you agree with what it says.
Background information can be found in the New York Times article "City May Seek Permit and Insurance for Many Kinds of Public Photography". Thank you.

SERBIA. Belgrade.The Museum of Yugoslav Aviation 2007. © Peter Marlow/Magnum Photos

I visited Belgrade, Serbia, for a small exhibition of my landscapes and a workshop with Serbian photojournalists. I always like to find out first who is in the audience and asked who still shoots with film, out of about sixty people only one hand went up! Not surprising in a city with no E6 lab only one place to process C41.

During the workshop we had very limited time so I proposed a very simple project on ‘Hands’. I used Canon 5D and went with the group, to the park and market place near the gallery, and for an hour we all had great fun in the sun finding hands to photograph.

SERBIA. Belgrade. Project workshop with Belgrade photographers supported by HP. Work by Peter Marlow conducted with the workshop group on the theme of 'Hands'. 2007. © Peter Marlow/Magnum Photos

I was first in Serbia on a family holiday with my twin brother Chris, and my father, I remember it well, it was the first time I had got drunk, with a cheap bottle of the local wine, and a shop that did not mind selling it to two ten year olds.

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