Category: Creative Non-Fiction

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Take My Picture, Kashi (Old Varanasi), Uttar Pradesh, India

These Eyes

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.

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Prayer Wheels, Labrang Si Monastery, Xiahe, Gansu Province, The People's Republic of China

Prayer Wheels

Clockwise. Always clockwise. Clockwise round. Walking, spinning. Always clockwise. The wheels turn, continue turning, after they pass. Some turn and turn and turn while others fight against the inertia. Pilgrims, bright and tattered, or bright, or tattered. Some of these too will turn and turn, always clockwise, round the cluster of buildings capped in gold and brass at Labrangsi.

I will not count them: the prayer wheels, the meters, the pilgrims, the steps, the number of times I will feel the smooth patina of wood against my palm. I say to Emma: “I want to do this.” She assents.

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Near Joshua Tree National Park, California, United States of America

Velocity

The world reels by, unfurling at 90 miles an hour. At this speed, travel gains the sense of dance even on a relatively straight, flat interstate such as this section of I-395. I am aware of the countryside, the gentle undulations of the valley floor contrasting the angular gyrations of slowly eroding hillsides; I am aware of the thinning stands of Joshua Tree and can pick out a few individual shapes for their magnificence or their decrepitude; I notice the snowline band so evenly frosting the hill tops, that I am climbing toward the line, that I am now above it and that the snow along the roadside proceeds from spare dollops to a thin crust with mesquite poking through.

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Wat Arun, from Tha Tien, Bangkok, Thailand

Tha Tien

I am sitting over a bowl of Tom Yum soup and a Singha, both a perfect antidote for heat and humidity. Large prawns spooned out of an oily, spicy broth. Baby corn cobs, fresh picked, are an explosion of flavour, like an entire cob of spring corn in a single bite. I chill my burning lips with a draft from the Singha, an ice cold lager which makes up with chill effervescence what it lacks in taste.

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lager

Lager

My housemate was in New Orleans while I manned the fort during a dreary Vancouver March. It’s a singularly moist, grey and cold month, March in Vancouver. Sometimes a several-days-long hint of summer makes a foray into March which, rather than the reprieve it might otherwise be, only makes the return of cold wet seem all the more, well, cold and wet.

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Amber on Red

Amber on Red under Blue

We rolled up to Devil’s Marbles in the heat of the afternoon, the sun high and hot, the gravel parking lot kicking up dust with every step. Too hot to unpack. Too hot to clamber over the enormous stands of neatly stacked, smooth-edged boulders. Too far from Alice Springs to move on.

There was a little breeze, a few roofed camping platforms, so we parked ourselves beneath one while the ’79 Holden Gemini baked out in the sun.