Earlier today, I was thinking about what it is about me that I can't photograph other people's suffering. Some of the photographers that amaze me, like documentary photographers Robert Capa, George Rodger, and Mary Ellen Mark - whose work, in part, documents wartimes, homelessness, and the hardships among world cultures - put painful or unpleasant images/realities in front of our eyes that are so stripped down that they're purely and simply beautiful.
New York's Lower East Side press photographer Wegee definitely blew me away with the brutal crime scenes he documented that proved real life horror movies exist. Nan Goldin's representation of drug, gay and punk subcultures of New York in the late 70's and early 80's as well as her portrayal of violent couples and similar autobiographical material really interested me because it was so intimate and fearless ... so unapologetic.
I value what these photographers have done. I respect their honesty. Even though and whether or not their projects were driven by paid assignments or their own artistic interests - their images tell important stories and provoke meaningful dialogue.
So why, when I've had perfect opportunities right under my nose, can I not bring myself to photograph something that reveals intense suffering of another human being ... something that speaks to humanitarianism? I guess it's because I have the notion that documenting someone else's pain should benefit them or a larger cause rather than exploit them ... and I don't have the reach to make that sort of impact. Maybe that's just a cop out. Maybe the answer is simply that I think it's disrespectful or maybe the situations I'm thinking of just needed to be. Because although I have a documentary style, I photograph things I enjoy - things I like to surround myself with, not pain. Alternately, when I write with as much abandon as I do when I photograph, I tend to write about things that bother me rather than things that make me happy.
When I was in Paris I was walking along a sidewalk that was boxed off due to construction and alongside the walkway sat a paraplegic child with a bowl of scant change in front of her. I think I stopped dead in my tracks and prepared to take a photograph. I didn't even touch my camera but took a deep breath and moved on as I thought about the fact that I was doing nothing to help this child. Someone just dropped her off to work. When I was at the outdoor market in Morocco, I prepared to photograph a walking funeral procession that passed in front of me. Someone waved his hand in front of me to tell me "No" and I lowered my camera. I think once the coffin passed I caught a blurry picture of the procession in motion. Moroccon's typically do not like to be photographed. Most recently, after my mom had lung surgery, I was not only staring at how beautiful she was but also at the amount of wires and tubes that were helping and monitoring her while she recovered in ICU. There was no way I could photograph her in that state but I wanted to show people how miraculous life and science and technology can be. I thought about photographing only the tubes and wires, maybe her arm or hand from which they dangled but I felt that would be disrespectful even though I knew better because I know myself.
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