While out on an afternoon ramble with my family in the Fremont district of Seattle, I had an encounter that filled my thoughts throughout the remainder of the afternoon and inspired my writing here tonight. I had brought my Dalmatian, Flynn, with me on the walk, and manners prevented me from taking him into the different shops, though I did notice that other dog owners were doing so quite freely. As I waited for my daughter to browse inside, I was aware that a woman whom I had passed earlier in foot traffic on the sidewalk had made her way back and now sat down heavily on a chair outside the door of the upscale little shop.
I had initially seen the woman as a subject for a powerful photo in my own mind’s eye. Years ago, I was gifted with accompanying my brother on his photography adventures. He was a brilliant human interest photographer, and he had taught me to look at people and faces with an artist’s eye. However, I immediately dismissed the idea of taking this woman's photo, because she was clearly suffering. Her eyes were rheumy and appeared to be out of focus, secondary to…what… stress? Substance? Sickness? All three? It didn’t really matter for, as she slumped forward in the chair, breathing shallowly, she seemed clearly in distress. I leaned down, placed my hand gently on her shoulder and asked her if she was alright… she shook her head no, and I asked if there might be some way that I could assist her, someone that I could call for her. Again, she shook her head, which I took to mean that she preferred to be left alone, and I respected her wishes.
Having backed away, it was then that I spied a woman who looked to be about my age, crouched down on the sidewalk and hiding behind a sandwich sign that had been placed out near the curb, advertising the boutique that I stood in front of. She was furtively taking photos of the woman in distress, shifting on her knees on the hard cement to get a better angle. If the woman on the chair knew that the photographer was there, she was too ill to care. I watched the woman with the camera intently and pondered the politic of what I witnessed, and I found myself wondering: What makes one woman’s conscience come down on the side of compassion and another woman’s conscience come down on the side of the camera?
After witnessing the uneven exchange between the two women on the sidewalk earlier today, I thought about the American Indian approach to hunting. Before a hunter goes out to stalk sustenance for his family, he sweats, prays, and smudges in a gesture of respect, honor and reverence for that which he would make his prey. If the hunter is successful, then it is understood that the animal that gave its life was prepared to do so and, in the doing, a “giveaway” has occurred. Balance is present, honor is preserved, and reverence for the sustenance provided by the animal’s body is received in gratitude, fully mindful of the magnitude of the gift that has been given.
It was that exact balance that was missing in what I witnessed today. The woman hiding behind the sandwich sign and pointing her camera surreptitiously was taking, to be sure… what was given in exchange? Nothing that I observed, and I watched for a very long time. Perhaps something occurred after I turned my attention back to my family and we made our way down to the market, something that would completely change my perception of what I witnessed. But the picture in my mind is the one I have to carry forward, the one that has engendered these observations here tonight.
Interestingly, I found this quote by Henri Cartier-Bresson, one of my all-time favorite photographers, as I was researching this subject further on the net. I was struck by how similarly we described the moment of exchange between photographer and subject. Cartier-Bresson said:
“The creative act lasts but a brief moment, a lightning instant of give-and-take, just long enough for you to level the camera and to trap the fleeting prey in your little box.”
Diane Arbus said: “I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn't photograph them.”
That is certainly true with what I witnessed and subsequently photographed myself today. And now, having done so… what, if anything now, separates me from the woman who inspired my scorn in the first place?
Where is the line between camera-ready and compassion? One single photograph possesses the power to help to end a war: Who can forget little Phan Thi Kim Phuc as she ran naked down a road of Trang Bang, Vietnam, just after being burned by napalm? AP photographer Nick Ut captured the horror of the moment and earned a Pulitzer in the doing. A photo can work to bring a bullying power structure to its knees: The defiant man who stood alone in 1989 in Tiananmen Square facing down a row of tanks, preserved and projected onto the world stage by the lens of Patrick Witty. And a photo by Albert Eisenstaedt became one of the most iconic images of the last century as a sailor grabbed a nurse and kissed her in Times Square on VJ Day. Photos can connect us all with the immediacy of perceived presence as history unfolds in a shared moment that only a camera lens can confer upon us.
The camera speaks with a powerful voice and invites the world in. But, at whose expense? Today, I felt that the woman taking the photo was no more than an uninvited voyeur into the world of the woman on the chair. Today, I felt that it was passage paid by the woman in pain to a place she did not sign up to go to… and therein lies the imbalance… therein lies the insult… no respect... no reciprocity.
Any photographers out there with a different lens to look at this through? I would love to hear your opinions.
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