About

I Have A Name could be described as an “accidental” documentary - an impassioned piece of filmmaking that came about organically through one man’s outreach work and compassion. But the film’s impact is immeasurable, with those who see it reevaluating their relationship with the unhoused and spawning a growing movement for local action and broader social activism. 

 

Jon Linton remembers his first exposure to the unhoused when he came to New York City in the mid 1980s, fresh out of college. A work colleague warned him about giving handouts to “bums” on the street, but he wasn’t to be dissuaded, responding, “I just got out of college. I know what it's like to be broke and these aren't bums. They're people.” And decades later, this memory has deep resonance, as Linton has spent much of this century engaging with unhoused men and women in Arizona, and across the United States. 

 

In 2007, Jon picked up a camera with the aim to give an identity and a backstory to the men and women he encountered living on the streets. When his first subject Chuck was moved to tears when asked his name, Jon knew he had crossed an important bridge to empathy and connection. “When he started to weep, I knew exactly what he was crying about,” recalls Linton, “The man replied, ‘My name is Chuck. You have no idea how long it's been since somebody's asked me who I am.’ ” It was a pivotal moment for both men.

 

Some years later, he exhibited his photographs in a gallery show titled “I Have A Name”, the portraits capturing the plight, yet also the beauty and dignity in the faces. With the success of the gallery exhibition and an accompanying book of photographs, Linton tapped into social media to spread his message and with the addition of a donated bus, he was able to travel around, distributing much needed food and water, medical supplies and clothing to unhoused communities.

 

It turned out that Linton’s work was not going unnoticed. An old friend of his, philanthropist Adam Bronfman contacted him, asking to come out on the bus and suggesting they make a documentary about the venture. Bronfman’s close friend and colleague, Karol Martesko-Fenster of Abramorama, having also been affected by a friend living on the streets, was intrigued by what he heard from Adam, and urged them to keep filming. Bronfman details why he saw value in Linton’s mission; “He introduced me to this body of work that he was doing, both working directly with homeless people to distribute food and water off his bus, but also to this art,” he says. “And I was so moved by his work.” 

 

During his time out on the road, Linton faced mental and physical exhaustion. But frequently, a new interaction would leave him feeling overcome with gratitude, hope and a deeper understanding of the potential for beauty in connection: a look on someone’s face when given a new pair of shoes; somebody in need passing their food to somebody even hungrier; or a circle of people holding hands and praying for him. These were the things that kept him coming back. But eventually Linton needed to step back from the forward-facing aspect to his mission and he decided to hand the bus off to the organization “Arizona Jews for Justice” which was aligned ideologically with his activism. He states, “It's always been about the marriage of art and advocacy. The bus has become a social justice instrument, its own entity. It’s not mine.” 

 

Bronfman does not profess to hold the answers to the problems that are reflected on screen but knows that the film has touched all who have seen it, giving them pause to ask “Who am I?”, “How do I engage?”, “What is my role as a human being?” He attributes the film with a powerful, guiding directive; “Ultimately, it's Jon saying, if I can ask someone their name and introduce myself and recognize their humanity and become more human myself, then you can do it too.”  Linton concludes, “I think the film is a great legacy for something that I created a long, long while ago. And I hope that at some point we can live in a world where people aren't hungry or are not on our streets because they're mentally ill.”