Annalog

“Stare. Pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long,” declared Walker Evans.

From a young age, I was taught not to stare, not to eavesdrop, not to take obvious notice of the offbeat, but beautiful, details of life. To do so might embarrass whomever I was taking note of. But Evans, a photographer for the WPA during the Great Depression, advocates a more observant way of seeing. The better Evans could “see,” the more he was able to accurately convey what was going on in his images. It is your duty as a human to see—to look at the world, at other peoples and in turn to learn more about yourself. Photographers have the power to enable people to see what they otherwise would have missed. But photography has the power to be extremely subjective and an image can convey the feeling that the photographer is gawking at their subject.

So where do you draw the line between being a documenter and a voyeur?

This summer I am working as a photojournalist in South Africa covering the “foreigners”—the Zimbabweans, Somalis, and Congolese, among others—who have been displaced from townships for fear of xenophobic-based violence.

Nearly everyday I cover some news relating to this long-running story—whether it’s a press conference, news from a refugee camp or a story about reintegrating into township life. I get the chance to listen to refugees tell me their stories.

Every story I go on educates me a little more about South Africa and its place in the African community. Every story gives me a better sense of what it’s like to live here. But, the average press conference, no matter what it is about seems to bore the journalists from here. I understand. But I go and I pry a little more, because to me, it is foreign.

Not being from South Africa, I don’t have the background about xenophobia that people from here do. Every story is new and fantastic because I am not jaded from having lived here my whole life. I can still see what they have become blind to. I stare in order to see what they now miss.

Nearly two weeks ago now, I went to a township and made a simple portrait of a Somali man sitting in his shop that had been looted a week before during the xenophobic attacks. Nothing told the story better than just seeing him sit in his shop, surrounded by his merchandise again.

Kindly, people have let me into their houses and talked with me. They have shared their stories and then, I have left. It is hard to come into a person’s life for such a short time and leave again—whether you are traveling or working on a story.

The other day, as I was walking by the Waterfront in Cape Town, I forgot my manners for a moment. I gestured my hand in a pointing motion at someone. Almost immediately I drew my hand back, embarrassed, and walked quickly away.

The reason I was pointed does not matter. I noticed. It was the way in which I noticed that was unpalatable. Since I have come to South Africa, I have become much more aware of how careful photographers need to be about the way they notice.

“Don’t go in with your cameras blaring,” my picture editor has said. The idea is to sit back and make a connection. Photography, good photography, is about connecting with your subject, and as a journalist, nothing is more important.

After my editor told me this, I put away my camera and walked up to people at the event and talked. It’s not like they wouldn’t know I was there. All of a sudden, “prying,” as Walker Evans called it, doesn’t feel so much like “prying.” Observing doesn’t feel like as much of an intrusion of privacy.

I am in a foreign place, but I am beginning to see to appreciate what I couldn’t before. Every day I practice seeing, because everyday I pick up my camera and point.