LINGUA FRANCA #4: BITCH YOU AIN'T BRESSON - AN OPEN LETTER TO MY PAST SELF

February 28, 2016 in TEXT

I took my first film photo in 2013. It was summer I think. I bought my Canon AE-1 off of eBay thinking that somehow, film photography is, in many ways, better or more respectable than digital photography. The picture wasn’t special; the bougainvillea (مجنونة / جهنمية) tree in our yard. The edges of the photograph were burnt and the green was saturated (something I came to appreciate in some colour films). For some reason, that picture never left my mind. I still think about it. What drove me to have this specific tree as my first ever film photograph? I don’t really know. Throughout the years I would continue going back to that same tree, as a constant representative to how I started photography.

The idea of film elitism didn’t come up from thin air for me. The internet is littered with websites, blog posts, and forum discussions touting the inherent superiority of film. That somehow, digital censors would never recreate the same feel or warmth of film images. In a way, that is true. Film, as a medium, has this amazing power of nostalgia over people. A reminder to when they were children shooting a family vacation with a disposable camera. The results, too, were different from digital photographs. I don’t know if it’s nostalgia or the chemical structure of film emulsions, but for some reason, these pictures did look better. The analogue feel of film gave them a sense of life; a physicality that elevated its quality. This piece is neither a condemnation or condoning of film; I still shoot film exclusively on my cameras (except for when I shoot with my iPhone). But the idea of why I shoot film has certainly changed throughout the years.

Going back to the idea of film elitism, I bought the idea of film being the inherently pure photographic medium. That, because I shoot film, my photography is automatically better than those who shot digital. That us vs them nature continued for a long while in me. Even tagging the photos I posted with#film, #filmisnotdead, or #(whatever camera I used to shoot that photo). This, being an open letter to my younger self, is why I can say that I was full of shit. Utterly. I was so convinced by my superiority as a photographer that I forgone any effort of improving my skills or developing as a photographer. I relied on my self made unicorn status, demanding appreciation from online followers because I shoot film. For a while, that concept of superiority defined my identity as a photographer. That identity was further perpetuated by constant pretentiousness. One of the most poisonous mantras in photography is Henri Cartier Bresson’s (the father of street photography and co-founder of Magnum) the decisive moment. The decisive moment is a concept that first appeared in his book by the same name. In the book, Bresson talks about that perfect split second where you press the shutter button at the perfect time and take the perfect photo. That split second would mean the difference between a good photo and a bad one.

Bresson surely showed that concept in his photos. For example, of the man jumping over a puddle or the picture of the man on a bicycle in Paris. As gorgeous as these photos are, they are not the decisive moment. There is no such thing as a decisive moment. Looking at Bresson’s contact sheets, he worked the scene (taking multiple photos of the same subject from different angles and times). Bresson was a genius not because he knew when that decisive moment was, but because he employed his training as an artist to help him work the scene and study the geometry of photography. But, Meshari from years ago didn’t know that. He was so full of himself that, more than once, proclaimed to only take one or two photos of a subject maximum as if it’s a matter of pride; vehemently believing in the decisive moment. Meshari misunderstood the decisive moment. It was not a stroke of luck or the right timing. More than anything, Bresson’s decisive moment was simply a truism explaining the spontaneous and unexpected beauty of street photography. You don’t wait for the decisive moment, you create it. If only Meshari, years ago, got his head out his ass and realised that.

The pretentiousness didn’t stop there. I remember reading Roland Barthes’ gorgeous book Camera Lucida. That book, without a shadow of a doubt, is one of my favourites when it comes to photography. I often find myself going back to it every few months. Thing is, that’s not what I took out the book years ago. I was convinced in rooting my very amateur photography with my embarrassingly lacking philosophical knowledge. Why? It made me seem smart on Twitter and Instagram. I started talking about photographing in black and white because it brought out the inherent feeling of loneliness and alienation within people, or, it showed the true nature of the world: a dichotomous purgatory of bodies floating past each other. Basically a whole bunch of rubbish I’m pulling out of my ass. A chronic ass pulling condition. I looked down upon colour photography because it was to mainstream, too “populist”. Again, refer to the medical case above. It wasn’t black and white photography alone. This pretentiousness also extended to me looking down upon my photographer friends and acquaintances who didn’t not follow my foot steps and *air quotes* photograph the human condition *air quotes*. Can you feel the rage at such pretentiousness build up in your heart? I know. Drink some water.

All these things I did back then were annoying, but that’s not why I’m writing this. I’m writing this to talk about the effect all this had on me. The belief in film superiority, the pretentiousness, the pseudo-intellectualism, whatever you might want to call it, made me dislike photography. I was toxic towards my own passion. I put these invisible limitations on myself — limitations perpetuated by my own desire for ego and affirmation — to the point where I started disliking going out and taking photographs because I expected my work to embody a certain philosophical or artistic criteria. Showing off and pretending to be someone I’m not just for a couple of likes on Instagram or Twitter retweets jaded me from the one thing that mattered to me the most in photography: having fun.

I had a conversation with this person sometime back (that person is me. I talk to myself a lot. Making up an anecdote just makes for better writing. And makes me seem less alone. Okay, okay continue reading), and that person asked me: why do you prefer shooting in black and white? Two years back I would’ve went on this speech regarding the artistic merits of monochromatic photography. But I just thought to myself for a second and said, because I know how it works, and more often than not I just feel like it. I’ve shot so much black and white film that I now, more or less, gotten used to how it works and how to shoot it well. That doesn’t mean I don’t love colour films. Sometimes I feel like shooting colour, or sometimes I’m going to a beautiful colourful place that shooting black and white would just be unfair. That was my answer (again, to myself. Just wanna make the point of me having long conversations with myself clear). This is what I realised mattered to me the most in photography: having fun. Of course I won’t act holier than thou and pretend that I don’t care about my ego. I do. Big time. It feels amazing for your work to be loved by people and being appreciated and having exposure. But that ego balances out with simply enjoying the act of photography. To not be limited by self imposed limitations and setting bars so high that they’re impossible to reach, disheartening you from working at all.

Looking back, I don’t even understand why I felt so elitist towards film. For God’s sake, I sometimes take better photos with my iPhone than my Leica camera. Funny story, I saved up for a Leica for about a year and a half. At first I was so convinced that having a Leica camera would make me a better photographer. That I would use the same camera as my photographic idol used: Josef Koudelka, Bruce Gilden, Abbas, Winograd, etc. Half way through the saving up process I realised how utterly childish of me thinking that was. I was halfway through being able to afford the Leica so I thought why not just continue saving up for it. I’d buy it as a way to treat myself (since, before that, I haven’t really bought something that expensive to treat myself before) and just enjoy using it.

I made the decision to switch to mainly digital once I move back to Kuwait since it won’t be feasible to shoot exclusively on film if I’m living there. It’s never about the gear, it’s about the result. Cameras are just tools like a screwdriver or a phone. They are a means to an end, not the end itself. A Leica is a gorgeous piece of engineering, but it’s no better than my Nikon F3 or the camera on my phone.

I might be pontificating (I’m just looking for an excuse to write that word) in this post, but I am an amateur photographer. Nothing more than that; a reminder I keep telling myself. I realised that if I’m not enjoying photography, there is no point in doing it at all. Not for fame or groundbreaking artistic endeavour, but enjoyment; self fulfilment. Photography is a catharsis to me. Suffering from depression and anxiety, it is a hobby I can lose myself into and focus on the simple joys it brings me, focus on the many friendships it nurtured for me. I no longer take a certain photo or focus on a certain subject because of a deep intellectual reason, but because I like the way it looks, the colours, faces, framing, etc. It all boils down to this one simple fact. I burned many photos and ruined many rolls in my time doing photography and will do so for years to come. The beauty of it is that it is a continuous learning process; an ongoing exploration of the craft. Last winter, I went back to that tree in our yard and photographed it. Somehow automatically like a religious rite. It was the same. Never changing. Only I did, and I’ll continue doing so.

So here’s what I want to say to my fellow photographers or people who want to get into photography: there are no rules, there are no manifestos. Just go out there and enjoy it. That’s all that matters.

Oh, and for pretentious past Meshari: bitch you ain’t Bresson.

***
Note: Most of the photographers mentioned in this post can be found in Magnum Photographers' archive.

LINGUA FRANCA #3: KUWAIT'S GRAVEYARDS

January 27, 2016 in PHOTOGRAPHY

LINGUA FRANCA #2: TRANSNATIONAL CASTING IN FILM

December 25, 2015 in TEXT

Hollywood was never the most progressive when it came to representing cultures and ethnicities that were not white, Western, or European. For the majority of its history, Hollywood served as the glorification, through portrayal, of the white race as opposed to other races and ethnicities; something that reflected the political and social climate of the times, which Hollywood itself helped influence and guide. In its early history, white actors held a monopoly on film roles, with ethnic and non-white roles played by whites dressed in stereotypical clothing and face make up. By the 1930’s and 40’s, more and more non white actors started having roles in film yet the ones with leading roles were very rare.

Carmen Miranda was already a famous movie star in Brazil in the 20’s. Coming to the US and gaining popularity in the 30’s and 40’s, she was one of the first major non white actors to be cast in leading roles. Her claim to fame was the 1941 film That Night in Rio directed by Irving Cummings. Her roles were generally those of the ‘exotic’, fiery Latin woman who was uncontrollable. The nature of foreign stars within Hollywood is an interesting one, using them as markers of difference from the ‘regular’ American audience and echoing the labeling of otherness to them. From a sales point of view, the use of Miranda as the Other garnered more sales of the movie because audiences love to see something other than themselves on the big screen. The Western gaze upon foreign stars elevated the sense of national pride and the dichotomy of cultures between the US and the rest of the world; a case of US exceptionalism. Of course, that is not the fault of the stars themselves, it is simply how their roles were written and what the studios wanted at the time.

Another interesting point about Miranda’s relationship with Hollywood is since she was a Brazilian, thus native to Latin America, she was given roles portraying people from Brazil, Argentina, Colombia, etc. In a sense, the studios turned a blind eye to the nationality of the star, writing roles that suited how she looked like (to them, she looked like every other Latin American woman). Geographical specificity was often elided in Hollywood. Miranda herself had little to no say when it came to the roles she was given. Her contract with 20th Century Fox was binding and studio executives had little interest in ethnic or national specifications. (Interesting to point here, she eventually bought herself out of the contract but had little success working afterwards)

Fast forward to today, Hollywood is not as stereotypical and condescending as it was in the 40’s. A reformation within the Hollywood institution paved the way for less stereotypical roles and portrayals and a larger emphasis on foreign actors playing accurate roles. Yet the trend of Hollywood turning a blind eye on geographical specificity still continues. The question is, is it all that bad?

The barrage of Iraq war movies coming after 2003 showed Hollywood stereotyping and casting at its worst. Arabs were simply portrayed as a tool for American exceptionalism and heroism in the face of barbarians just as the Soviets were portrayed in the 70’s and 80’s. In the last few years though, a rising popularity of foreign films and actors paved the way for a more accepting and accurate portrayal of other countries and cultures within films.

Amr Waked in Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

Going back to geographical specificity, there are several movies where actors from one country portray roles from a different countries. For example, Wagner Moura, a Brazilian, plays Pablo Escobar, a Colombian in Narcos. In Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, as well, an Egyptian plays the role of a Yemeni. The examples are ample, even happening in Arabic produced/directed films: Jordanian plays the role of a Palestinian, Emirati played the role of a Kuwaiti, Lebanese playing the role of a Syrian, etc. The question begs itself: how important is it to cast an actor from the same country that the role is portraying? Since cinema is the portrayal of a reality unto fiction, would the origins of the actor matter if the role is written and directed correctly?

There are arguments on both sides of the spectrum. On one hand, geographic specificity is essential in the movie and portrayal of characters. For example, films like Noah and Moses used white actors to portray Egyptians and Semites just to appeal to a Western audience and neglected hiring actors from the same country or region as the film is. That is a major intentional oversight. For supposedly historical films (and many other films like it as well), the usage of non-ethnic actors demeans the portrayal of the characters and whitewashes the history behind the films. Hiring actors from the region/country where the film is set in, is not only important just for the sake of being accurate, it is also important in the fact that a foreign actor from one country resonates with the character and understands its mentality. A geographically accurate casting can help the actor identify with the role and deliver a better performance.

On the other hand, it might not be completely necessarily to be geographically accurate. In films like Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, Appropriate Behaviour, Rosewater, and even Arabic films such as When I Saw You (Lama Shiftak), etc, actors from one country play the role of a person from a different, near by country. A part of me thinks that as long as the role is written, directed, and played well, the nationality of the actor does not matter. The film can separate the actor from their origin to produce a work that can be great without compromising accuracy or respect to different cultures. In the case of Mr. Robot, Rami Malik, an American actor of Egyptian parents, plays the role of an American. His nationality, ethnic background, or culture is not a variable in his role as Elliot. There is always a burden of a foreign actor being a representative of their culture or country, a burden that is automatically given the moment he is viewed as the Other, either out of curiosity or ignorance. Elliot, the character, is one that transcends national and cultural boundaries, appealing to the very fragile humanity in all of us. He is a conduit of the fears, anxieties, and obsessions define us.

There might be something to be said when it comes to actors portraying roles that transcend boundaries and cultures, appealing to the most human qualities in us. There might even be something to be said about actors needing to be from the country of region they are portraying. There are valid points in either arguments. But the truth is, I don’t know where I stand. The more I think about it the more it seems that it all depends on what kind of movie it is, what subject it deals with, how the characters are written and if there is a big enough budget to have the casting producers scout actors from different parts of the world. Thing is, in 2015, there is no shortage of foreign actors making it big. Brilliant actors. Hollywood is seeing a fantastic surge of a multicultural trend in cinema and TV that is both accurate (for the most part) and engaging. With that happening and world cinema gaining a massive traction and funding, this would surely be even more promising.

LINGUA FRANCA #1: ELLIPSES

October 30, 2015 in IN ENGLISH, PHOTOGRAPHY, TEXT

Writing in his book Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes describes a photograph as the reflection of the photographer an inherent imposing of the photographer’s own dreams, fears, and obsessions into celluloid film (or pixels). Photographing such a seemingly bleak landscape such as Kuwait’s can be difficult, given the country’s oversaturation of skyscrapers and its inherent societal resistance towards being photographed. Being a conservative society, it is also especially difficult to photograph women without asking their permission first. Yet, the beauty of Kuwait lies within its little idiosyncrasies, its overlooked details often overshadowed by its modern razzmatazz; the banal. The exploration of everyday banality, the quotidian, is a fascinating theme to explore through photography. Stories are hidden deep within aged leather shoes and ratted handbags. The reflection of pain through the mundanity of everyday life is a theme that enthrals a person the more they try to delve in it; as Barthes writes, an obsession imposed on a photograph. The theme is further amplified through the motif of loneliness. I, perhaps unconsciously, try to impose scenes of loneliness through the framing of the subjects within the photograph and the usage of black and white film. The monochromatic nature of BW film enhances the feeling of solitude, the contrast of shadows and highlights encapsulates the dichotomy of coming to terms with pain and solitude while trying to live a normal life.

Kuwait is a nation of migrants. Every person living in Kuwait can trace back their roots elsewhere (even though some won’t admit it). Cosmopolitanism has been the driving force behind Kuwaiti culture since its inception in the 18th century. This multi-ethnic melting pot (as cliché as this term can be) is reflected in its music, cuisine and art: ranging from Africa, Iraq, Iran and elsewhere in the Gulf region. That said, Kuwait’s mistreatment of migrant and foreign workers is no secret. It joins ranks with other oil-rich Gulf states in its systematic mistreatment of migrants, demonstrating appalling human rights abuses through withholding of salaries from employers and institutional racism from the government.

For the most part, migrant workers built Kuwait’s infrastructure, a reflection of the aforementioned cosmopolitanism. Workers from Southeast and Far East Asia and elsewhere from the Middle East constitute about 68% of the population. The irony lies within the majority of the non-Kuwaiti population and the nature of mistreatment they receive. Migrant workers serve as the foundation of Kuwaiti society; a society that, alongside Kuwaiti citizens, would not have come to existence without their help. Their sweat, tears and blood helped build Kuwait to what it is today. Yet we, as a Kuwaiti society, often overlook them. We see them as nothing more than a set of hands doing a job, devoid of humanity. We owe migrant workers everything for helping us build our country.

For this photoset, I went to the souq (Market) of Mubarkiya, the oldest known souq in Kuwait, predating the rapid urbanisation that swept the country during the 50’s after the discovery of oil. Within the old brick and concrete roads of the souq lie the smells of old Kuwait: fishmongers, butchers, fruit sellers and fabric shops, right in the heart of Kuwait’s booming downtown financial district. This juxtaposition of history is also reflected through market goers; selfie sticks and Segway scooters alongside old dates sellers and incense merchants; fathers taking their children to the old coffee shops to drink tea and tell the stories their fathers told them; families eating kebabs and shawermas in the same restaurant they’ve been going to for the past 30 years. The character of the souq is reflected upon the various nationalities of merchants there: Indian Bohra gold sellers, Iraqi and Iranian fruit and food sellers, Egyptian butchers, and Syrian fabric sellers. Mubarkiya is a microcosm of Kuwait’s cosmopolitan history.

My fascination with photographing the banal led me to conversations and photos with the various nationalities that inhibit the souq. A Syrian fabric shop owner, the one who is posing with a cigarette in his mouth, came to Kuwait at a young age and started working with other Syrians in the business. He still has family back in Syria and, as he looked away (perhaps out of respect) and inhaled his cigarette, told me about his attempts at applying for a visa for his nephew in order to get him out of Aleppo. His pain was tangible, it almost had a taste of stale cigarettes chain-smoked to help him cope. A pain reflected by his blackened out face; a face succumbing to hopelessness, numbness. The unfortunate banality of his pain contrasted by his sense of humour when he told me he chooses to dress smart because no one would buy from a messy looking merchant. He wore a bright patterned maroon tie with a beige suit, his hair parted sideways showing off his baldness. That is the perpetual state of Arab manic depression: tremendous pain coupled with bouts of humour and happiness.

In another photo an Indian tent maker told me about his mistreatment by his employers. He would sleep in a small caravan in the yard and share an outdoor shower with some other 20 odd workers. He is still making his tents and he is still hoping of a better life. His co-workers saw my camera and called me over to take his photo, they were joking about how uptight he was. He gave a small, shy smile and agreed to get his picture taken. When I raised my camera, his face changed. The shy smiled became a stoic look. His face was in defiance to how he is being treated; a testament of his will, resilience. He didn’t blink, nor change his face after I took his photo four times. He had the uncanny will to live, to thrive.

These stories are not unique; they are present in every single migrant working in Kuwait. Stories of pain coupled by an unthinkable willingness to live and survive, and most of all thrive. These stories are deeply rooted within the banality of migrant life in Kuwait. A quotidian nature of accepting pain and living through it.