'THE DOOR OPENS INTO HER FLAT AND INSTANTLY I'M OVERWHELMED BY THE FRAMED PHOTOS COVERING HER WALLS'
Squinting through the peephole, I'm startled by the sight of an eyeball pressed up to the other side. The giant retina then retreats and the form of a large man in a fleece jacket appears. 'Yes?' I call. 'You Ogden Chesnut?' the man says. 'Something like that.' I open the door. 'What can I do for you?'
He hands me a small box. 'From the old bird down below you.' I pierce the Sellotape and open it up. Inside is a Yashica 35mm film compact camera. I look up at him confused. 'That's very thoughtful of you. Are you her son?' I ask. 'Nah, mate. I'm just sorting her possessions. There ain't much. But she apparently wanted you to have that.'
'You mean she's...' 'Yeah, two nights ago.' Amid all the sirens and headlines and personal crises that occupy our days, my neighbour Rose quietly made her exit from the world with little fanfare. So good a neighbour was I, that I learned of her passing only days later .
'Does she have anyone to come by and collect her things?' I ask. 'Dunno, mate. We were just called to come and clear out the gaff so the new tenant can move in. Come down and have a look if there's anything else you want. I'll give you a good price.'
Charming Rose was quite outspoken, which is why it was so strange that I never saw her leave or people come to visit her. Her life was very insular within our building. I would see her every morning downstairs collecting post that was rarely anything more personal than a letter from the council. I often wondered if she had anyone in her life who cared about her, if she was lonely or perhaps running away, yet she always seemed happy.We traded pleasantries and regrets about the weather for most of our time together in the building, never delving beyond that. Only recently did she invite me in to her flat, but I had to decline as I was heading to Brighton that day. As I follow the fleeced man down the stairs I'm filled with a touch of regret.
The door opens into her flat and instantly I'm overwhelmed by the framed photos covering her walls. Every inch of space is used. There is no pattern or co-ordination in the frames. Instead, there is a timeline of Rose's life, charting husbands, boyfriends, colleagues, friends, more boyfriends, and then, as the photographs evolve into muted tones that finally burst into vibrant colour, Rose's hair washes into black & white and the group portraits grow fewer and fewer.
As I move towards the kitchen and the date stamps push towards the 21st century, people feature far less in Rose's photos, replaced by park landscapes, birds and street scenes. It strikes me seeing this amazing visual record of Rose's life that as we get older and the people close to us pass on or move away, and as we slow down and wander less, the only evidence we have that we lived a full and vibrant life are the pictures on our wall.
We've often heard of other cultures who do not allow themselves to be photographed for fear that the camera traps their soul. More interesting to me, however, is the reluctance of the Amish people to be photographed, believing the camera only indulges in vanity. Perhaps there is an inherent element of vanity in photography. For some, like Rose, it may be to show that we were here and we loved, and were loved back. For others it is to share our own personal view of the world. And for others yet it's to trap and keep a moment for ever because it pleases us.
There's nothing wrong with a little vanity, as long as we acknowledge it and know why it's there. I trap moments in time with my camera, probably because I largely failed to inspire the types of moments that adorn Rose's walls. 'I really must print more of my pictures,' I say, to no one in particular. 'Nah, mate,' says the fleeced man. Just lash 'em up on Facebook. Easier to get rid of when you go.' He then drops the framed photos into a bin bag.
From an article by Ogden Chesnut. In the 15 October 2011 issue of Amateur Photographer magazine. An edited version appears here.
Squinting through the peephole, I'm startled by the sight of an eyeball pressed up to the other side. The giant retina then retreats and the form of a large man in a fleece jacket appears. 'Yes?' I call. 'You Ogden Chesnut?' the man says. 'Something like that.' I open the door. 'What can I do for you?'
He hands me a small box. 'From the old bird down below you.' I pierce the Sellotape and open it up. Inside is a Yashica 35mm film compact camera. I look up at him confused. 'That's very thoughtful of you. Are you her son?' I ask. 'Nah, mate. I'm just sorting her possessions. There ain't much. But she apparently wanted you to have that.'
'You mean she's...' 'Yeah, two nights ago.' Amid all the sirens and headlines and personal crises that occupy our days, my neighbour Rose quietly made her exit from the world with little fanfare. So good a neighbour was I, that I learned of her passing only days later .
'Does she have anyone to come by and collect her things?' I ask. 'Dunno, mate. We were just called to come and clear out the gaff so the new tenant can move in. Come down and have a look if there's anything else you want. I'll give you a good price.'
Charming Rose was quite outspoken, which is why it was so strange that I never saw her leave or people come to visit her. Her life was very insular within our building. I would see her every morning downstairs collecting post that was rarely anything more personal than a letter from the council. I often wondered if she had anyone in her life who cared about her, if she was lonely or perhaps running away, yet she always seemed happy.We traded pleasantries and regrets about the weather for most of our time together in the building, never delving beyond that. Only recently did she invite me in to her flat, but I had to decline as I was heading to Brighton that day. As I follow the fleeced man down the stairs I'm filled with a touch of regret.
The door opens into her flat and instantly I'm overwhelmed by the framed photos covering her walls. Every inch of space is used. There is no pattern or co-ordination in the frames. Instead, there is a timeline of Rose's life, charting husbands, boyfriends, colleagues, friends, more boyfriends, and then, as the photographs evolve into muted tones that finally burst into vibrant colour, Rose's hair washes into black & white and the group portraits grow fewer and fewer.
As I move towards the kitchen and the date stamps push towards the 21st century, people feature far less in Rose's photos, replaced by park landscapes, birds and street scenes. It strikes me seeing this amazing visual record of Rose's life that as we get older and the people close to us pass on or move away, and as we slow down and wander less, the only evidence we have that we lived a full and vibrant life are the pictures on our wall.
We've often heard of other cultures who do not allow themselves to be photographed for fear that the camera traps their soul. More interesting to me, however, is the reluctance of the Amish people to be photographed, believing the camera only indulges in vanity. Perhaps there is an inherent element of vanity in photography. For some, like Rose, it may be to show that we were here and we loved, and were loved back. For others it is to share our own personal view of the world. And for others yet it's to trap and keep a moment for ever because it pleases us.
There's nothing wrong with a little vanity, as long as we acknowledge it and know why it's there. I trap moments in time with my camera, probably because I largely failed to inspire the types of moments that adorn Rose's walls. 'I really must print more of my pictures,' I say, to no one in particular. 'Nah, mate,' says the fleeced man. Just lash 'em up on Facebook. Easier to get rid of when you go.' He then drops the framed photos into a bin bag.
From an article by Ogden Chesnut. In the 15 October 2011 issue of Amateur Photographer magazine. An edited version appears here.
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