Stories of the Everyday

The sun is about to set as I stroll down the dirt road towards the beach, small stones making a crunching noise as they grate under my tennis shoes. Camera slung around my shoulder, my thoughts are projected towards what I might find on the beach worth making pictures of. Lost in thought, I pass two men sitting on the side of the road, their workman’s clothes soiled from a long day’s labour. They must belong to the adjacent building site, waiting to be picked up and taken home. “Excuse me, Miss,” the taller one calls after me. I turn around, with a question mark in my look. There is a little pause, as if, momentarily, he lost the courage to go on. “Could you take a photo of me?” he asks eventually. “I would very much appreciate it. I only have two photos of myself and I would very much like to have one from here, in Pringle Bay. I can write down my address and you can send it to me.”

I hesitate. The man seems to be in his early thirties but looks quite rough. He has stood up and walked a few steps towards me to explain his request. His younger companion is still seated on the grassy curb. He looks at the ground in front of him, chuckling to himself. Is this a plot to steal my camera? But I can’t pick up on any bad vibes. I think about how common it is for working class South Africans not to have any photographs of themselves. And how, for a middleclass citizen like myself, it is pretty much a given to have my life documented in pictures. From the day of my birth, year on year, on every birthday, Christmas, holiday, family reunion and other special and not so special occasions. It’s amazing how many thoughts can cross one’s mind in a split-second.

I decide to interpret the other man’s chuckle as a harmless expression of embarrassment at his friend’s bold request. “Do you have pen and paper?” I ask. He looks searchingly around him, pads down his pant pockets and then nods his head towards the building site. “I can get a pen from there,” he says and runs off. A minute later, he is back, with a pencil and a small scrap of cardboard. Leonardo Abrahams, he writes on it in a schoolboy’s scribble. “I have a fancy name,” he tells me. The irony has not escaped him. Underneath he writes Nesertia Rd at No. 70, Kleinmond. “I also need your postal code,” I prompt. Leonardo hesitates. “What’s the postal code of Kleinmond?” he shouts to his colleague. 7193.

Now that that’s out of the way, Leonardo positions himself in front of a large hedge of fynbos. He knows exactly how he wants his photo to be taken. “Only up to here,” he instructs me, drawing an imaginary line with his hand across his chest. He wants a close up head-and shoulders shot. I position myself and lift the camera. Leonardo looks straight at me, proud, without a smile, his lips apart and his head slightly tilted to one side. I can detect a faint scepticism, as if he doesn’t quite trust the process of photography. As I look at him through the viewfinder, I notice how closely his dark hair is cropped to his head and his uneven, pockmarked skin, partially concealed by two-day stubble. A half-moon-shaped scar decorates the cheek underneath one of his eyes, which have turned into small slits as he blinks into the low late afternoon winter sun. He is not the most reassuring figure.

“Can I see?” he asks when I am done. I call the images onto the screen on the back of my camera and turn it towards him. He briefly studies the photos and nods. He is happy with the result. “If you send me the pictures, I will do work on your house. For free,” he offers. He is good at lots of stuff, he assures me. Painting, building, tiling, fixing things. He doesn’t seem to realise that what he proposes is a deal much to his disadvantage. That’s how much a single photograph is worth to him. “Thanks for the offer,” I reply, “but I don’t have a house here. I am staying with family.” He nods and we say goodbye. I don’t tell him that I don’t think he owes me anything. That in this warped society built on privilege, opportunity and advantage, I have the distinct feeling that it is me who owes him – even if it’s only a picture.

As I continue my walk to the beach, I make a firm promise to myself to have the photos printed and posted to Leonardo as soon as I get back to the city. And not just conveniently forget about it. Part of the firmness of my resolve stems from a speech I remember well-known photographer Obie Oberholzer make at the opening of one of his solo exhibitions not so long ago. Oberholzer, who has become famous for his honest photography of ordinary (and mostly poor) people throughout the continent, brags that the way he gets people to pose for him is by promising to mail them a copy of the shot. Next, he prides himself, without any qualms whatsoever, on the fact that he has never ever stuck to his promise. Not once. Throughout his entire career. He says this with a wide grin, clearly chuffed with the success of his ruse. I feel a little nauseous when I hear the arty audience snigger. It is then that I decide to take Oberholzer as an example – for how not to do it.