Snapseed
You walk along friedrichstrasse and from one end to the other you experience several diverse and often incompatible worlds. And it isn't a smooth transition either. You have the delapidating building and right next to it is the 4-star hotel with its imposing facade coming out of the imposing 20s of the industrial and construction grandiosity. Right next to the baroque shop full of a mixture of kitch and tasteless perversions.
I spend the weekend in Berlin. It was wonderful - the weather was fantastic (perhaps does not fit the classical definition of August summer since it was only in the low 20-s), people were out in the streets, clouds were trickling from one side of the horizon to the other (casting the dramatic shadow and the occasional contrast-lowering). I did sleep in on Saturday and I missed the golden light but in some areas of Berlin, the light gets reflected from all possible corders creating a caleidoscope of light, refracted in every window and every alley. It wasn't until late in the evening when I reviewed my pictures that I found out a pattern (pictures not fitting the pattern will also trickle in the blog this week).
What I hadn't realized is that I've been taking pictures of couples everywhere. And it wasn't until I send a few select pictures to a special someone that I realized the emerging pattern. Was this pattern guided by an inner desire to be sharing the exact moments those couples were going through with the special someone I shared the pictures with? Do the objects of our photographic views emerge only because we are actively looking for them? I thought to myself what happened to documentation of the unseen, unobtrusive, uninterfered. Where did objectivity in photography go?
Berlin is a romantic location. The cafes that welcome couples. The street musicians who, as if hired by a film producers, fill the air with an operetic mood. The colours which, as if sucked up from the view, are soaked up in the viewed as if she's a painter.
The couples are oblivious to the street photographer who, like a voyaeur, scoops every bit of privacy into his pixels.
It is said to be the biggest (i.e. longest at 12 km) march of shooters in Germany (anywhere), it still leaves me wondering about it - where are the shooters? But it is a colorful parade of sorts with tons of micro-groups each representing their historic heritage. I observe the groups, trying to guess the participants' age and their relation. Most are old, some are children. None are there in between (apart from the occasional one who appears to be a biological copy of one of the older ones). What is the purpose of this entertainment? Sorry - not the "purpose" (which is entertainment to the masses) but the "function" (and that's since 1955). As a photographer, one simply needs to look at it as a display of mastery - the Schützenkönig beats the rest but they are all part of the justification of this gathering. More pictures HERE.
I am sitting in the car and watching her talk to her sister. And my heart skips a beat - not because of the topic or because of the approaching train that I need to take. But because I get that feeling of familiarity, the feeling of knowing what's coming, the feeling of verbal recognition - the déjà-vu. Because I've been there before - in that car, with those people, and in that conversation - but not in reality (or at least not in the conscious reality).
I arrived late after train-station hopping with a suitcase and a camera in hand. Checking at the arrival schedule, I wonder how long it takes to get out of the gate with a suitcase that she can't carry (and I wonder - what if there is no one to help with it). Of course, the idea is ridiculous (although the guys at customs might be more helpful than they should with other motivations). And she is there and she sees me first - and I am a tad confused (seems to be the norm of late) and we walk through the airport to the train station in a daze - perhaps it is the image of the bandade and the scar below, or the image of the flying byke (and worse - the flying E.). In the train, I rest my shoulder on hers and I feel her strength - way beyond my own - but that's again the titanium bone-support.
We walk to the hotel - and it is charming - with stairs shaped like a heart, escalator with a carpet on the wall, and a welcoming receptionist like in a movie - he explains how to get around the city, and so we do, leaving behind our baggage (and the metaphorical) and enjoying our conversation (in the midst of the football game - how dare we?!). And who would have known that she has hatched a cunning plan - and I would be her partner in crime (then again, when one brings a smile and tears and a smile again, one feels no remorse).
Day 2 starts with rain - as it should always do - because rain keeps the streets envigorated - people rushing to get away from the rain, people opening colourful umbrellas hoping for protection, people cuddling closer together under the same umbrella. And then there are the people like us who couldn't care less for an umbrella. And we walk looking for old books, new fashion cuts, and discourses on life (we are such cliches!). But then comes our chance to hatch the plan - to surprise our hosts with an arrival - and surprise we do - as they have just relaxed on the massage table, we barge in to their amazement - and they don't know if the massage oil fumes have not messed up with their eyes.
And that's when I see the tears, mixed with joy, and smiles - when salt becomes elixir that heals wounds and scars.
It has been a lovely ride - Brussels for 3 months - a city of color (on a good day), with challenging streets (for a driver) and hilly roads (for the sports enthusiasts). I loved the fact that I could go somewhere with a view - the terrace of the city. I loved I could go to a city square where there would always be tourists. I loved the contrast between the old architecture with centuries-old traditions in chocolate making. I loved the languages - starting a centence in French, finishing it in Flammish and being able to understand everything in between from German, through Dutch, to English. And the soap balloons that would decorate the air - the kids who would put a background melody with their laughter.
