One of its leaves, turned a little yellow, lies on the ground
On the tiled floor On the red-tiled floor On the floor tiled with coarse red-brown tiles
One should always be as precise as possible, to avoid misunderstandings as much as possible and to convey the best possible picture of the facts
(Cont.)
Yesterday you had two of these leaves in your hand when you entered the dining room from the balcony
Removed for medical-cosmetic purposes
(Epilogue)
In my thoughts I spent about ten minutes upstairs in my study with this aloe vera, which is down on the balcony, sitting in its red clay pot and living its life
Inspired by Richard Brautigan’s poem My Concern for Your Tomato Plants from his collection Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt (1970). Photo of plant by the author. Originally written in German, translated by the author.
Olympus E-M10 with fisheye lens from Lomography Experimental Lens Kit
(top left and bottom right taken with red filter)
I walked into the Andaman Sea in Thailand with this camera in summer of 2019, intending to take some photos close to the surface of the water, when a somewhat high wave reached me – and the camera, instantly disabling it. Salt water does that to electronics, alas.
I kept the camera, thinking of having it repaired some day. When I took it to a shop, I was told that such sea water damage is irreparable. However, a tutorial on YouTube seems to indicate that such repairs are indeed possible. It looked too complicated and time-consuming, though, so that I never tried.
Some time later, much to my surprise, the camera came alive after I put in a charged battery. It basically cannot be controlled – most of the buttons don’t work, or only sporadically. However, the shutter button works, which means that it’s possible to take pictures with this dead camera!
The four examples above were taken with it and a lo-li fisheye lens – the reddish ones through a red filter.
Once he had retired from work at age 65, my husband got it in his head that he was going to have another career and took to photography with a vengeance. He’d taken occasional snapshots, like everyone else, during vacations or excursions or family occasions, with whatever camera we had at the time – nothing expensive, just the point-and-shoot kind popular in the 1980s and 1990s, getting something digital in the early 2000s when digital cameras had become more mature. He had inherited an old Leica from the 1960s from his father, which had not been used for many years, and he had it overhauled, bought a light meter for it and used it occasionally alongside his more modern equipment. Initially I thought this new hobby was good for him – it kept him busy and happy after his office life had ended.
Things got out of hand once he became more ambitious after discovering the photography of Vivian Maier, an American woman who had walked the streets of Chicago with her camera when she was not taking care of other people’s children (she was a nanny). She only became famous after her death – more or less by accident, it seems. Seeing her photos in an exhibition prompted my husband to start thinking of himself sort of as a male version of Ms. Maier. He increasingly took to the streets of our town or wherever we went and shot loads of pictures of whatever he laid eyes on – buildings, people, animals, whatever. It struck me as being rather random right from the start. He had zillions of photos printed and organized them all in envelopes and boxes in his office, which was quickly filling up with his output. He also started taking part in competitions and even won some awards in local ones. He spent endless hours digitizing old photos from prints and negatives, editing and archiving them on his computer and posting them to God know what social media sites.
Of course, he also wanted frequent feedback from everyone around him, particularly me, his wife. This was exhausting – I got to look at thousands of photos, most often at a loss to see why he had taken them in the first place. There were so many of them and they seemed repetitive and unremarkable for the most part. People walking, people in shops, cars, at airports, at playgrounds, anywhere. Mostly completely unknown. Streets, roads, landscapes, God knows where. He kept insisting that this was street photography and that it was important as a documentation of life. He kept saying how much he regretted not having done it much earlier in his life, that there were so many places and things that had remained undocumented.
The photo above, with the subject off-center, is typical for some his mass production. He’d go places and snap pictures in what seemed like a random manner, often from the hip, so that he would not get noticed. Sometimes people noticed, though, and confronted him, asking why he was taking their picture without permission. That it was against privacy laws, etc. Once he took a picture of a security guard with his cell phone, who must have heard a click or seen a flash. I was so embarrassed when the guy came over and insisted that he wanted to see the phone. My husband lied and said he had not taken a photo. He also refused to let the guard look at his phone. Eventually the man walked away, repeating that he did not want his picture to be taken.
When my husband started having pains in his abdomen and was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he initially increased his photographic activity, saying he had to make sure he was making the best possible use of the time he had left. Soon, however, he was no longer able to go out. He became bedridden, had to take morphine to deal with the pain and passed away after a few weeks.
Janine, my daughter, has asked me to move in with her and her family, and I feel that I need to leave this house, which is full of memories. What to do with all the photos in my husband’s office? My son Michael, who works in advertising, said that probably no-one will be interested in them. But I feel that I should at least try and find a place for them, and Janine thinks she might be able to at least arrange for an exhibition in town. Maybe this is the way to go. Anything is better than to simply throw it all away, right?
Ein warmer Sonntagnachmittag, Regen 4 Uhr, Seitengasse in Ginza, alles geschlossen.
Tausende von schlafenden Bars, ihre Schilder wie leuchtend bunte Drachen.
Gewundene ballartige enge Straßen und Gassen sind die Schnüre.
Still nur ein paar Leute kein Wind
Tokio 16. Mai 1976
– Richard Brautigan
Aus dem Englischen übersetzt von Johannes Beilharz. Das Original mit dem Titel Kites erschien 1978 in dem Gedichtband June 30th, June 30th von Richard Brautigan.
beilharz 