The moon pulls the sea
From the shore
Where I find
The measure of the land
While the setting sun pulls me
To the expanse beyond the sky
Where I find
The measure of me
The moon pulls the sea
From the shore
Where I find
The measure of the land
While the setting sun pulls me
To the expanse beyond the sky
Where I find
The measure of me
He seemed, at least to himself
Unsteady, dilapidated
Built on feeble support
Detritus scattered all about him
He had suffered
Many storms
A lifetime of obstinate hardship
One day a passing glance at his reflection
And there he stood, steadfast
In all his battered glory
I fall
To the merciless stone below
Which I not only survive
But somehow
Shatter
Fragments and rubble
Tumble to the lake below
While I stand above
Shaking
My fist
At the world
That tried to take me
The land needs more
Than water
To sustain life
When the soil itself
Is toxic
And yet
Even here
Against formidable challenge
Life finds a way
Amongst the nooks and crannies
Of possibility
He played the game
All day
And all night
He played the game
Because when he played
He never cried
When he played
He never felt shattered
Or broken
Or alone
He played
And he played
Until he exhausted consciousness
He played
Until even the terror
Even the darkness
Deep inside him
Could no longer hold
Sleep at bay
And then he slept
Until the dreams
The nightmares
Woke him again
The images
Never survived consciousness
He never remembered the dreams
Just that a dream woke him
Leaving only the shattered terror
And the loneliness
The lovelessness
So again
He played
Test the lines again
Against prevailing currents
Reassured secure
Harried by sea gulls
Or so it seems
Invited guests
Swarm the hands
That feed them
Life flitters on Ganga’s banks
A small cascade of humanity
Going about its day-to-day
Details succinctly lit
Or lost in silhouette
The same to my mind’s eye
What seems a bath
Instead a spiritual cleanse
What seems unclean water
Instead the holiest of rivers
On the banks of its holiest city
At rest
Between the fires
The morning long past
The evening to come
These form flotillas
Of tourists and pilgrims
To view the Ganga Aarti
Twice daily
The sun is high enough that it bores down hard through the thin but thick veneer of smoke and smog smothering Kashi, old Varanasi. In the midday heat, with camera in hand a bagful of lenses at the ready, I search for frames in a place of bounty so extreme as to be, in effect, daunting. It is impossible to exhaust the options, even without changing lenses.
“I would like you to take my picture.”
This is not the familiar request of one tourist asking another for a favour, as they offer their camera for a shot of themselves. Rather, it’s a local asking someone with a professional-looking camera to take their photograph. Record me. Eternalize me. Kids of all ages ask this of me often, especially in places that are populous and there are enough tourists about that the locals feel comfortable with them. That this question comes from an adult, especially one so beautiful, and with such arresting eyes, is rare. Rare, and disarming.
Nonetheless, I agree, then check the light and turn us around a bit so the sun falls on his features in just the right way. Two quick frames, nearly identical (I end up using the second), then I pull out a business card to offer while I thank him. He demurs about receiving a copy of the image file; the gesture is a gift to me. I thank him again. We small talk about our lives, the substance of which escapes me now, seven years later, not because his life is unremarkable but because my memory is. And then, we part.
I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to edit and post this portrait. Simple as it is in form, it’s really quite remarkable due to the light and its subject. There’s more than a little Mona Lisa subtle intensity in his expression, most notably the intimacy of his gaze. I’m not sure that fighting the light to put the ancient buildings of old Varanasi as his background would have improved the result.
I do nearly regret not taking more frames of him, asking him if he’d accompany me a bit as a model. However, setting up portraits and models isn’t a mode of photography I’m practiced or comfortable with. When it comes to people, I’m more of a street photography poacher, someone who lays in wait or sneaks up on his subjects. The intimacy of this moment is not something I’m comfortable asking for. I think that affects my ability to frame such interactions between photographer, lens and subject. The personal interaction distracts me from creating the frame.
<smile> And, yes, there’s no small metaphor in that.
I think this photograph works so well because I made minimal effort to pose it, thought simply and quickly about light and framing, and allowed the subject to make his own statement. It’s a simple intimacy expressed warmly and naturally on both sides of the glass. The result is among the best portraits I’ve ever taken.