portrait of labour

photographer 19

we stopped along the way when we noticed the massive garage sale sign. one thing led to another and soon enough we were looking around, laughing and chatting with mr bowtie himself.

i asked if i could take his picture and was granted permission, like he had done with the previous eighteen photographers that day. i promised i would drop off a copy of the photo and he smiled.

yesterday i posted mr bowtie this photograph.

stare xv

this portrait was the result of a very lengthy discussion about this man’s experience of the 2011 egyptian revolution. i tried to capture some of the complexities of these stories in an earlier post, this demolished room

egypt has been on my mind

singh is king baby, singh is king

postcard from indonesia | babershop barbershop

the horror anonymous

spanish hipster

this isn’t what usually catches my eye, but i have to be honest - the dude was rocking his style.

rock throwing, tunisia

i thought about trying to revisit the revolution.

to assess, somehow, what the passage of time had done, or revealed, or not. either way.

there were snippets of conversations - in a car, in a cafe, with a taxi driver.

but somehow it was all a little vague, a sense of wondering, of waiting, of not yet, of soon and shortly and nearby.

so we passed the afternoon throwing rocks at the sea,

though i never did see the splash

george, drinking a small carton of pineapple juice, having completed my shave

where are my glasses

george, how long have you been in this shop?

how old are you?

thirty

take that and add sixteen years, that’s how long…

<click>

what the fuck is wrong with my glasses?

they are my glasses

i thought my glasses were fucked

and we both laughed

far, far away

we shared two cigarettes and talked.

talked about justice, talked about language, and talked about honour. we talked about culture and exile and longing for home.

and a longing for a place that you left twenty-five years ago. and a longing for a place that lies beyond reach. and a longing, a longing for justice. 

mostly, i just listened.

music by sivan perwer, from his album xezal xezal

stare xiv | lebanese nun caring for a sick monk

stare xiii

abu rami. ex-army, semi retired, carpark attendant ; smokes a pipe, cheeky smile, office covered in graff. lucky bastard.

hybrid bike

it went like this:

cool bicycle (using the formal arabic word for bicycle)

huh?

your bike, it’s cool. what is it called?

cycle. it’s called cycle (the name for bicycle in omani arabic)

it’s cool

thanks

how did you make it?

well, i took a big new cycle, then changed the front so it would be smaller

yeah

then i got iron added (a strip of iron wrapped around the back tire which makes an awesome noise when you drift the bike), then i painted it white, then i changed the colour and then i changed the handle bars

cool. i’ve never seen a cycle like this in all my life. it’s the coolest cycle ever

yeah (lit. ‘normal, normal’)

he rides off - almost hitting another cyclist - and drifts around the corner…

watch out!

yeah ('normal, normal’)

stare xii

third generation expat worker