Stolen Photos

Three young men...hardly...closer to boys from what I could tell...sat wrapped in saffron colored robes, heads touching, looking toward the reclining Buddha. The picture looks staged. A perfect moment caught on film. And I stole it. 

Stole is the only word I can think to use, because I didn't ask for permission. And while those young men cannot be identified because only the backs of their heads are visible, it is still a stolen moment. 

I can list all of the reasons that I didn't ask permission to capture that moment: language barrier, candid vs posed, harmlessness...they might have said no rings loud in my ears. Better to asks forgiveness than permission.

Still, that photograph is among my favorites. Although I don't have it displayed anywhere and I can't even put my fingers on it now if I wanted to; it is seared in my head. I can see the brightly colored robes juxtaposed against the gray stone. The young monks' heads, round in contrast to the angular lines of the Buddha.

I'm not proud of the clandestine nature of that photo. But I also can't say with any certainty that I wouldn't take it again if given the opportunity. A silly thought since I can't find the actual picture now and I don't really need it given that the image is seared so neatly into my brain. 

I don't make a habit of stealing photographs. In fact I often carry guilt when I take photos of people during my travels. Even when granted permission...mostly with permission. In Kenya I took a roll of film that included the famous splendor of the flamingos on the Lake Nakuru and, later, a family at the Masai Mara. Even as I snapped photos of the smiling family I felt funny. It all felt wrong. People on display for amusement parading as education. 

I was using my father's old Pentax K1000 then. It shot beautifully and only had one flaw, no window to let you see what kind of film you had inside. In the case of the flamingos and the Masai family, there was no film where film should have been. The camera was as empty as my soul felt doing the tourist gawk. I have no flamingo shots, no Masai photographs,  but again, the images are seared in my head, leaving me to wonder if I needed the photos to begin with.

There are photos I have taken while traveling, of people who offered up themselves in the moment. One of my favorites, I call African Gothic. The light was perfect, their skin shining, their faces unsmiling. There is a solemnity to it that picture, in their posture, that I can't explain. They were my neighbors in South Africa and maybe it is because we had a relationship that extended beyond the nanosecond it took for my shutter to close, that I don't cringe at the thought of asking their permission to let me capture their image for myself. 

I've been on the other side of the lens also. In China, people followed me around and asked (mostly) to take my photo. Pantomiming often because language was clearly an issue. I acquiesced in good humor, used it in trade.  "Yes I'll hold your baby and stand next to your wife if you will then take a picture of me in front of whatever thing we are all standing in front of." I was traveling alone and besides, I understood my novelty in that context. 

In Liberia it was more offensive. A Pakistani military/UN group wanted a group photo and I reluctantly agreed. Given we were in a country full of black people it felt odd to me to be singled out in that way. Later that day, two of the men followed me around continuing to take photos, even after I waved them off, even after I tried to hide. All of a sudden the invasive reality of photographing someone without their consent was front and center and I wasn't simply irritated...I was afraid. 

All of this reminiscing inspired me to search out the picture of the monks, of African Gothic...and through the unlabeled hodgepodge of photos shoved into one of my drawers, I discovered that there are several photos I've taken without permission. The most beautiful older woman I've ever seen, hair white, skin roasted coffee, hands clasped together as she craned her neck to see the dance the young girls of the village were performing. She, like me, was in the crowd. She was wrapped in multi-colored traditional Venda cloth. I remember spending my time trying to get a picture of her, but her face was always turned away at the moment I snapped. Maybe it was telling; I shouldn't have been trying. I hadn't asked.

Twenty minutes of rummaging and I still can't find those pictures...but I can still see them clear as the moment I took them. Maybe as clear as it was meant to be.