George Disario has been making photographs for five decades as a street and art photographer, and for commercial and institutional clients. For business purposes, George and I traveled around the U.S. and the world for over two decades, and our friendship grew from and out of these experiences. Before the pandemic, I visited George at his house and studio in Newbury, Massachusetts with the aim of putting together a feature for On The Seawall about his latest street photography. But then our project was interrupted by the arrival of Covid-19 in Boston. In May, when George and I resumed our conversation, he told me about the photographs he had taken at the ICU of Holy Family Hospital in Methuen, MA. We then decided to show some of the images here at our “gallery.” George’s narrative follows. — RS
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On April 10, 2020, I got a call from a business client and dear friend, Deborah Chiaravalloti, the director of marketing and community relations at Holy Family Hospital in Methuen, Massachusetts. Her idea was to photograph some of the doctors and nurses from the ICU who would stand in front of an exterior white stucco wall. The photos would be included in messaging to the community about the hospital’s readiness to manage the rising tide of Covid-19 cases.
But the thought of approaching the hospital worried me. I had been quite ill in early February after an all-day commercial photo shoot on January 20. Working up close and personal, I took photos for print ads of over 100 people individually and in small groups, while the news from China and Europe about the rising pandemic was on everyone’s mind. The very next day, I did another shoot at an annual meeting of a bank, a gathering of about 300 people in a crowded function room. Already there was talk about isolated outbreaks of the virus in New York City. I recall one person who stood out – he was the only one wearing a face mask. Shortly thereafter, I came down with a bad cough and my breathing became labored. My doctor’s office was closed to walk-in patients, but I was told during a phone consultation that my symptoms could not be ruled out as Covid. I was ill until around March 1 when the symptoms eased.
On April 11, Deborah called again – only now, she was determined to capture images within the ICU itself and inform her public about the tireless efforts of her medical teams. Having attended one of my street photography presentations in Newburyport in 2018, Deborah now had the notion of shooting the ICU photos not as portraits but in the gritty style of my street photos – people in motion, the unflinching truth, black and white images. I admit that I agonized for 24 hours before deciding to accept the assignment. Ultimately, I knew that I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take those pictures. My son Chris agreed that I should proceed. And I had persuaded myself, shakily, that it was more dangerous to enter a supermarket than a Covid ICU.
On April 15, the day of the ICU shoot, everyone I met and saw there displayed a consistent if solemn resolve. I could read worry in some eyes, and even a flicker of fear, but that was the exception. The high professionalism of the medical people was very moving to observe. But what has stayed with me longest is the memory of the ICU’s prevailing quiet, an almost overwhelming silence.
Once immersed in the work, I soon reached a peaceful zone — what artists have long thought of as “no mind.” It’s a creative space where we don’t think about rules of composition or what color goes with another or how the results may be regarded. I was just being there with my cameras and perceptions. After I was introduced to the medical team, I also noticed the staffers who were cleaning and maintaining the unit and bringing food to patients. I made sure to include those unsung contributors in my photographs.
The most sobering part of the experience occurred later out in the parking lot as I disinfected myself and my gear. I’m a serious germophobe, and in my car I had packed 99.9% wipes, a half-gallon of isopropyl alcohol, and bleach cleaner. I twice washed my hands and arms with 70% alcohol. I soaked a large microfiber cloth with alcohol and wiped down my tripod. I re-soaked the cloth and wiped down my cameras over and over, and repeated the process with my camera harness and accessory bag. I re-washed my hands and arms. When I arrived home, I closed off my studio from the rest of the house and quarantined my gear. In hindsight I know that sounds excessive but that’s the way it went.
If there is one thing that I would like to leave you with, it’s way that everyone looked. They are no different from the hard-working people I encounter helping out in my local supermarket or passing by in the street. Our heroes look like someone’s sister or brother, not some inflated Hollywood persona. They look like you and me. Regular folks stepping up with resolute conviction. And the silence of the ICU, as they labored without rest, is still in me.
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To view more of George Disario’s work, including additional ICU photos as well as his street photography, please visit his website by clicking here.