"SHE AIN'T NO ANGEL" Three lives intertwined around one burlesque pole in a dimly lite gentleman's club that held the odor of sweaty coochy over stale cigarettes. Hot erotic dancers played out their fantasies on an adrenaline-laced steel pole.

Three lives intertwined around one burlesque pole in a dimly lit gentleman's club that held the odor of sweaty coochy over stale cigarettes. Hot erotic dancers played out their fantasies on an adrenaline-laced steel pole. 

Gloria was a very cheerful, personable stripper who let it be known to the camera that she had a latent desire to be an actress. For some strange reason, I became fixated on digging deeper into her personality. She was not only sensuous, sexy, and attractive, but her bubbly personality was contagious. Gloria was brutally honest about why she got into stripping: "I get out of breath with excitement watching horny men throb with excitement as I shake my ass and bounce my tits, putting them under my hypnotic spell. I feel powerful when I can control a man's dick and money. That shit excites me!"

She then looked at me and said, "I excite you, don't I?" I didn't respond because I was very turned on by her from the moment I saw her, yet I wasn't about to admit I was under her hypnotic spell, even though she intuitively knew it. She slowly bent down with her legs gapped, opened her G-string, separated the gap between her parted coochy lips, whispering into my ear, "Mr. photographer, put down that camera and let me take you into the back room, I wanna seduce you, this private dance will be on me." 

At that moment, it seemed like so many eyes were on us, so many ears could hear her proposition. I was embarrassed yet turned on, thinking that the only thing valuable about Gloria was her body and what she wanted to do with it to turn me on. I was here to get a story because I believe every stripper has a story. I wanted to show their humanity, yet here I was entertaining the thought of a sexy woman stroking my confidence.  Maybe I decided to do this story on strippers so I could find myself in the position I find myself in, in need of a little extra attention from a beautiful, sexual woman. The Sad reality is that every man knows what the true hustle of a stripper is ------Money.

Something about a woman who can seduce the money out of a man's pockets. And it's not in a vindictive way. As one of the strippers told me, "People associate all strippers with prostitution and porn stars it's not the case with me. My goal is to turn this pole into an opportunity for a brighter future."

THE DIVERSITY OF EXPRESSION

 Feelings we try to chase, feelings we can't erase pictures capture our innermost thoughts of expression. This is a collection of photos I captured over the years moving in space and time.

SURVIVING BLACK FATHERHOOD

Like a chess game, every move I made right or wrong cemented my image in the eyes of my children.

I'm finishing up authoring a book I have been writing over the last 10 years about my experiences as a black father the good, the bad, the ugly and I just want to share some of the manuscripts with you before I release the project.

Every chapter of this book was written as the emotional drama unfolded in living color. I hope you will not only feel my pain but see my struggle to survive fatherhood.

I never had a clear blueprint to becoming a father because my father died when I was young so I saw choppy pieces of being a father from various role models and family members. I had to figure out a way of piecing together all this information. Here are my thoughts and feelings.'

 Black fatherhood men fail to openly communicate about our emotional experiences in a public forum. Outside of barbershops or a drunken depressed stupor most men hold in their feelings of vulnerability. In the end, the real victim is the child that grows up seeing the battle lines drawn between black fathers and mothers not understanding that one day they possibly will be facing the same dilemma. Like a chess game, every move I made right or wrong cemented my image in the eyes of my children.

The sacrifices a father makes for his children can only be measured in love. Black fathers are often overlooked as being in the forethought of women/children minds as individuals who have the capacity of giving unconditional love. Too often we have to fight with negative images of Black men who abandoned the hearts of their children.

Being a father was supposed to be the highlight of being a man, but as I walked the path of fatherhood I found a lot of adversity and emotional heartache that came at the hands of the mothers. My children were innocent bystanders not understanding how I tried to spill so much love into them, but in the back of my mind fearing my child could be taken away at any moment by the baby mother.

You see I was battling my demons watching a host of nieces and nephews disappear from our family tree because of divorces and baby mama drama. Who was I to think this same fate wouldn't be my fate? I learned fathers had no real birthrights when children are born out of wed, we had to fight for them in family court. Women have the security of knowing "mamas baby daddy's maybe" and the reality is full circle.
Competing images of deadbeat black fathers flood the media and you wonder as soon as you can't provide financially or overwhelm with surviving life when will you be labeled as such.

Fatherhood becomes very complicated when you're no longer in the same home with your children, it's a predicament that no woman has to worry about because she automatically has custodial parenting birthrights and she gotta either give them away or fuck up so bad that they're lost. Parental security is built in as a mother so their few outside factors that will break the bond between mother and child.

To be continued!

The Last One Standing

While we may not have direct control over government politics, white corporate America, educational institutions, Hollywood, the judicial system, or financial institutions, there is one thing we can control: our own lives and the choices we make. I understand that our circumstances—such as police brutality, drugs, unemployment, poverty, broken families, inadequate education, and gang violence—can heavily influence these choices.

Accepting personal responsibility can be difficult because it's easy to fall into the mindset of being a victim. The attitude of “I have a felony conviction and can’t find a job, so I’m going back to the streets” is one that too many young men adopt. For many, the fear of incarceration is no longer a deterrent. Instead, imprisonment has become a badge of honor, a rite of passage that some young men proudly embrace.

It's challenging to maintain hope when your future feels unclear, unpredictable, and bleak due to an arrest record that leads only to rejection in the job market. The need to survive can drive individuals to desperate actions, making it easy for them to fall back into the traps of the criminal justice system. Society seems to view prisoners as necessary deposits, as there is a continual need to fill newly built jail cells. Given society's refusal to rehabilitate ex-felons and the tendency of parole officers to violate them over minor infractions, it appears that Black men are valued more inside prisons than outside.

Breaking the cycle of recidivism requires assistance, incentives, courage, perseverance, and family support. It’s easy for someone on the outside to tell a young man not to get caught in this trap, but from the inside, all he sees are roadblocks. With local governments not rushing to provide assistance, it falls to the individual to take action.

Growing up in a poor urban inner-city community, I faced daily peer pressure and temptation. I had to learn where to draw the line between right and wrong. My friends included both "good" kids and "bad" kids, and I welcomed friendships with all of them. Many of the cool kids engaged in risky behaviors while the good ones were often seen as nerds. As an athlete, I found acceptance in both groups, but I chose to hang out with the cool kids.

Group membership was based on the ability to fit in. I was involved in activities such as smoking weed, drinking alcohol, and fighting. As I entered high school, the requirements for fitting in shifted from being merely deviant to engaging in full-blown criminal activities like gang involvement, gun violence, drug dealing, and car theft.

I faced a critical choice: to be “cool” or to be my own man. Fortunately, I chose the latter, while some friends remained trapped in that life. One by one, they were caught, either going to jail or being murdered on the streets. I still stayed in touch with my surviving friends, but they felt trapped in a life that led to death and destruction, knowing it was just a matter of time before their number came up.

My best friend, Edie, whom I had known since elementary school, was one of those who couldn’t walk away. He had faced life-threatening situations multiple times: he’d been shot three times, stabbed inches from his heart, and had overdosed on THC four times, often finding himself in and out of detention by age 15. I started calling him “Cat Man” because he seemed to have nine lives. At that young age, I lacked the wisdom to offer advice that might persuade him away from a life of crime, but my loyalty to him was unwavering. Despite my mother’s disapproval, we remained close until his tragic death. At 17, he was murdered and left in the same streets to which he had pledged his loyalty.

Of the eight childhood friends I grew up with, five were murdered, and two are missing. I consider myself fortunate to have survived. We were just innocent children; our only crime was being born Black. The ghetto became our prison, with each of us held captive by poverty, drugs, and violence. Every day, we walked side by side with death, unaware of how it would eventually shape our futures. Surviving against all odds became a struggle that each of us faced.

I often reminisce about my childhood friends and the fun we shared—playing tackle football, having rock fights, wrestling, boxing, playing dodgeball, racing, and hiding. Little did we know that these games were preparing us to battle in an asphalt jungle known as the ghetto.

Deferred Dream" A Docufilm By Anthony Alden

Love Don't End With Goodbye

People often ask me why I'm not married, especially since I seem like an honorable man. 

While I find the single life to be quite challenging and I’m certainly not content with it, I also believe that I’ve grown wiser with age, making more thoughtful choices. I haven’t encountered what I would consider a bad woman, but I have met women who simply weren’t compatible with my spirit.

In my younger years, relationships played a significant role in my life as I embarked on my personal journey. I didn’t think much about compatibility because I believed I had a lifetime to discover what I truly wanted in a partner. During that time, I’m sure I unintentionally broke some hearts, just as I experienced my own heartache from love. Reflecting on my past, I realize that if I could do it all over again, there are only a few things I would change. At this point in my life, the notion of "What if" no longer holds any significance for me.

Interestingly, I come from a background of two parents who loved each other unconditionally. Many times throughout different chapters of my life, I’ve wished I could replicate their formula for success in love.

"They say where you stood when you were young is where you will sit when you grow old."

I’ve reached this moment in time for a reason, and I accept the circumstances I’ve been given by fate. My one piece of wisdom is this: love doesn’t end with goodbye.

"When We Were Young" Photography On Exhibit April 1-30, 2019

Aunt Mona

“WHEN WE WERE YOUNG” collection is a nostalgic journey back to the days of innocence. Through the eye of a camera and a precision photographer, Anthony Alden Vines allows the viewer to reminisce our childhood.

Lost Child

Anthony Alden grew up in Toledo, Ohio the youngest from a family of ten, 8 boys, 2 girls.

The art of creativity was passed down to him by his father, the late Clifton Vines (photographer), who exposed him to his prolific creative gifts for documenting the black experience in Toledo, Ohio 1950s and ’60s through portrait photography.

Anthony Alden's diverse repertoire of imagery is inspired solely by his passion to verbalize the contemporary urban black experience. Each photograph echoed the demand for African Americans to be portrayed in a positive light.

A smile, a frown of discontent, first haircut, friendship, and exploration are just some of the precious moments this unique one of a kind, one-of-a-kind exhibit captures.

Bringing a message of peace and hope in today’s troubled world, “WHEN WE WERE YOUNG” will wrap a smile around your face.

Check Mate
Currently on exhibit April 1-30@ at Upper Cup Coffee, 79 Parsons Ave. Columbus, Ohio.

For exhibit information contact: anthonyaldenart@gmail.com