As you have probably noticed, I
like to photograph people on benches. There is something democratic
about them. Benches can accommodate all kinds of people, and everyone
becomes, with all their differences, related, when they share one.
The woman and man sharing this bench seem oblivious of each other, and I wondered. "Are they a couple? A chance pairing of strangers?" A short story could be written about this tableau. Her posture is imperious as she looks off; the man is slumped over with his head on his arm, and seems disheartened. You don't see it right away, but right in the middle of this gritty drama, a little puppy sleeps peacefully on a fluffy white blanket.
The woman and man are separate, with their own private thoughts, but their bodies gravitate toward each other: the woman's head is turned away from the man, but her arm on the top of the bench reaches out in his direction. One of her legs is contracted, but the other extends in a straight line toward him, the flexed toes of her foot tantalizingly close to the fingers of his limp hand. The woman's bare feet are up on the bench, but her dark sandals are on the ground before her, just like the light shoes on the man's feet.
I also like the relation of the man with his white T-shirt to his own reflection, and that of a white car in the window directly behind him. The roof of the car has a similar shape to the man's back, and gives him a lift; he is related to that which has energy, a bright car.
When we learn how all things are related through the opposites, a fundamental change, both scientific and kind, takes place in how we see ourselves and the world around us. This idea impels me as a photographer: the grandeur of reality and the individuality of a human being, no longer at odds with each other, even if the content or subject matter seem to say otherwise. Eli Siegel writes in his classic essay, Aesthetic Realism: Some Central Notions: "Every thing, let alone every person, says something about us, explains ourselves. The structure of what thing cannot illuminate our own structure?"
The woman and man sharing this bench seem oblivious of each other, and I wondered. "Are they a couple? A chance pairing of strangers?" A short story could be written about this tableau. Her posture is imperious as she looks off; the man is slumped over with his head on his arm, and seems disheartened. You don't see it right away, but right in the middle of this gritty drama, a little puppy sleeps peacefully on a fluffy white blanket.
The woman and man are separate, with their own private thoughts, but their bodies gravitate toward each other: the woman's head is turned away from the man, but her arm on the top of the bench reaches out in his direction. One of her legs is contracted, but the other extends in a straight line toward him, the flexed toes of her foot tantalizingly close to the fingers of his limp hand. The woman's bare feet are up on the bench, but her dark sandals are on the ground before her, just like the light shoes on the man's feet.
I also like the relation of the man with his white T-shirt to his own reflection, and that of a white car in the window directly behind him. The roof of the car has a similar shape to the man's back, and gives him a lift; he is related to that which has energy, a bright car.
When we learn how all things are related through the opposites, a fundamental change, both scientific and kind, takes place in how we see ourselves and the world around us. This idea impels me as a photographer: the grandeur of reality and the individuality of a human being, no longer at odds with each other, even if the content or subject matter seem to say otherwise. Eli Siegel writes in his classic essay, Aesthetic Realism: Some Central Notions: "Every thing, let alone every person, says something about us, explains ourselves. The structure of what thing cannot illuminate our own structure?"