I photographed writer George Pelecanos a few weeks ago in the alley behind the house where he grew up. As I was setting up and testing the lights, it began pouring rain, adding an unwelcome layer of difficulty to the shoot. Trash bags were brought out, lights and battery packs were covered and all was ready by the time Mr. Pelecanos pulled up in his limited-edition 2001 Ford Mustang GT.

As we began shooting, the rain stopped and the sun came out, forcing a quick readjustment of the lights and some beautiful backlight.

Pelecanos's roots run deep in DC which is clear from the historical richness of his crime novels. One of the heritage trail markers in DC even has a photo of the Pelecanos family Thanksgiving, circa 1962, showing a young George Pelecanos smiling at the camera. The excellent story by Carlo Rotella can be read here.

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It's a rare treat to get the monthly envelope of tearsheets and see a magazine using your absolute favorite image from the shoot as the lead. I spent a day last month with Maxime Verhagen, whose position was described to me as "the Condoleezza Rice of the Netherlands." Despite the typical stage-managing that follows any politician being covered by the media, I felt like the photos showed a bit of the inner workings of the Dutch government. It's not often that I get these more pure photojournalistic assignments and this one was particularly enjoyable given the range of photo opportunities and the crash course I received in European perceptions of the American government from the writer (which were not dissimilar to some of the issues John Kifner touched on in the excellent first issue of Dispatches).

Edward Lovern for Stern Magazine

A story I worked on last October was just published last week in Stern, a German news magazine. I've worked on dozens of stories since then, but this one held a tragic resonance and I still think about the short time I spent with this grieving father who lost his 15 year old son to MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus).

I remember sitting in the noisy country restaurant as we ate fried catfish and the reporter asked questions. On the table was a large photo frame that Ed brought with him, with maybe twenty photographs of Ed's son, Jon. Jon was a normal healthy kid who liked playing basketball with the children at an orphanage nearby where Ed spent his childhood. Within a week of feeling sick, like he had caught the flu, Jon was lying in a hospital bed while doctors told Ed and his wife, "There's nothing else we can do."



On one level, this was a public health story, as it was clear that doctors had missed the diagnosis from the beginning. But the core of the story was about this family who had lost their only child. I remember Ed's eyes welling up as he traced his fingers over the photos of Jon and I listened, holding my breath as I shot a few frames.

I remember thinking that for whatever brief satisfaction there might be from telling Jon's story and letting a broader audience know about him, that moment was harshly tempered by the deep loss I saw in Ed's eyes, and felt again when I looked through these photos. It was the last image I saw that sticks with me most, of Ed walking away from us after politely shaking my hand and thanking us for our time. He carried the large photo frame securely under his arm as he walked through the dark parking lot in a light rain, as street lamps cast gleaming white reflections in the growing puddles of water.