Black and White Photo Challenge Part 2

Lake Nasser – Dawn                                                                                                              Fuji Acros 100, pushed to 400. December 2009.

“. . . it was wonderful to wake every morning close under the steep bank, and, without lifting one’s head from the pillow, to see that row of giant faces so close against the sky. They showed unearthly enough by moonlight; but not half so unearthly as in the grey of dawn. At that hour, the most solemn of the twenty-four, they wore a fixed and fatal look that was little less than appalling. As the sky warmed, this awful look was succeeded by a flush that mounted and deepened like the rising flush of life. For a moment they seemed to glow–to smile–to be transfigured. Then came a flash, as of thought itself. It was the first instantaneous flash of the risen sun. It lasted less than a second. It was gone almost before one could say that it was there. The next moment, mountain, river, and sky were distinct in the steady light of day; and the colossi–mere colossi now–sat serene and stony in the open sunshine.”

– Amelia Edwards, from A Thousand Miles Up The Nile

Stray Dogs – Black and White Photo Challenge Part 1

Canon AE-1 Program, Fuji Acros 100, pushed to 400. Scanned with an Epson V700. Taken on the road from Delhi to Pushkar, India. March 2012.

      “I fucking hate stray dogs.” He was looking out the taxi window as two mangy dogs sauntered across the deserted New Delhi road. They appeared out of the darkness, illuminated by the white wash of our cab’s headlights. He turned back to me and added, “and they fucking hate me, too.” His flat, English accent added a distinct punctuation to those statements that suggested something more than a casual history lay behind them.

     I had met my cab sharer in the baggage claim area of Delhi International, and while wandering about with a backpacking pack & a bulging camera bag, he approached and asked if I wanted to share a cab into the city. Though hesitant at first, it turned out that my hotel and his hostel were in the same area, and the decision seemed sensible enough. And it was 3:00am local time, so all other modes of transit were closed.

     “I guess I just still have that student mentality – never get into a cab alone,” he told me as the cab turned left, then right, then left again through the endless maze of New Delhi streets. A quick glance at the taxi’s meter seemed to confirm his apprehension. “Fuck,” he muttered. “We should have agreed on a fixed rate,” and the meter jumped up another 100 rupees or so. “First rule of traveling in a foreign country, and we ignored it.”

     I replied with something glib about jet lag and landing at 3:00am, but his attention had again turned to the outside where another stray dog was trying to dodge our cab.

     I pulled out my phone to check the time. “Do you have maps on that?” my cab mate asked. “Because it’d be great to plot our route and watch us being driven in circles.” I laughed, though I was wondering the same thing. After several more lefts, rights, and traffic circles, he leaned forward to address the driver.

     “Excuse me,” he said indicating to the meter (which was just passing 30km and another 100 rupee jump), “but how much further to Pajar Ganj?” The driver turned around, his watery, tired eyes ignoring the road speeding by. “Yes, sir?” he mumbled in labored English.

     “How much further do we have to go?”

     The driver pointed to the meter and repeated the same strained, “Yes, sir?” My cab partner sighed, and tried again, “Pajar Ganj. How much longer? How much time?” The driver pointed again to the meter, “Yes, sir.” This time, it was not a question.

     It was now approaching 4:00am, and a tense silence filled the cab with my cab mate brooding, and every once and a while muttering about “ignoring rules” and “fixed rates.” Trying to change the subject, I asked him where he was from. “Sussex,” was his answer. I mentioned I had family in Leeds, knowing full well that Leeds was nowhere near Sussex, but hoping the connection of English ancestry would at least spark a conversation.

     After a couple of minutes, he asked the same of me. United States, I said. California. Los Angeles. “Ah,” he said, “I’ve actually got family in, what’s the name of that bloody place . . . Burbank, I think.” I said that Burbank was nice. “Its a bit weird though,” he replied. “Everyone there is weird. And celebrities. What a bunch of fucking disappointments.”

I just shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

Looking back – the photographer’s reaction

Kodak Ektar 100, Minolta SRT-101 with a MD 28-85mm 1:3.5-4.5 lens

I love to travel. But even more, I love to travel with a camera (or four). Photographs are my souvenirs when I venture out – they tell the story of where I was, who I was with, or what I was experiencing. For me, though, they act as keys to unlocking memories and moments that get pushed aside, or shuffled around with the bustle of all things current.

Having recently gotten my scanner working again, I have been re-visiting photos from previous adventures, such as the one above from a trip to India in spring 2012. I was surprised at how easily (and frequently) I found myself distracted from the task at hand and off reliving the time and place where I took each photograph. This got me thinking about how a photograph affects its photographer when revisited after it was initially captured. So much emphasis is placed on the reaction of or impact on the first time, or even repeat viewer. But how does the photographer feel, or perhaps more appropriately, what does the photographer feel when looking back on his or her work?

I remember seeing an add in a recent issue of American Cinematographer from Arri that showed a picture of one of their lenses, captioned with “The moment you stop capturing an image and start making one. That’s the moment we live for.” That struck a particular cord with me. Simply taking a picture involves a conscious effort – framing, exposure, and capture medium, among others, are all choices that the photographer (casual and professional) faces before activating the shutter. The idea of “making” amplifies these choices and puts them to the foreground of the whole process. While many of these may end up limited, or in some cases automated by the capture device and/or media, a series of choices is still made before each image is created. It is this moment, however brief, that imprints itself on the photographer’s mind – linking itself to other sensory data from the time and place the photograph was taken. Sights, sounds, smells, and even moments all become linked to the act of making an image. The longer the moment, the more lasting the imprint. It is this imprint that refreshes the sensory experience and memories when the image is revisited.

Take the photo above as an example. The longer I look at it, the more the day I took it comes flooding back. If I continue think on it, more and more things come back to  me from the trip. Soon enough, I’m relieving my trip day by day, and my mind brings other images I’d made to mind during my time in India, even ones I haven’t seen beyond the negative yet. But they remain in my memory like bookmarks in the trip’s narrative, all because I took the time to make an image, and in doing so, crafted a memory.