The Photographer in the Street
Version française originale ici.
Alone at home with my morning cup of coffee, that familiar surge of love. I slide the cursors and modify the colors, the lights, the shadows around them. I want them to look great.
I delete the photographs in which their eyes are closed, their face blurred, their mouth full of food. I groom them, I polish the glow of their skin, their nails, their teeth.
Sometimes when I just love them too much to delete their picture, I cross a line that should not be crossed: I play with the contrast, exposure, saturation and grain to reveal their flamboyant, mysterious or artsy self. I am like an old widow at a funeral, fussing with the flower tucked into her late lover’s breast pocket.
I don’t know any of them and they don’t know anything about me. They are just strangers whose portraits I stole. They have no idea.
I don’t see the monster. I don’t see the perv, the asshole, the bully, the rapist, the con and the liar. All I see in them, is their shared humanness. How they are all so different, and yet so alike.
Alone at home with my morning cup of coffee, as I look at my screen and slide the cursors, they are my shelter from what is raging outside; my very own private humanity. And thus, I keep on shooting.
Travel Writer, Blogger.
Visit my blog @ http://carriespeaking.com