The next couple of days passed in varying degrees of dejection and annoyance.
After my let down of not finding Harry at the library Friday afternoon, I had spent practically my entire weekend in the vicinity, hoping to cross his path. I sat on the steps to the fifth avenue entrance for part of Saturday morning, reading over a textbook and making a few notes before finally becoming cold enough to venture inside when I had yet to see any hint of the object of my mission. Venturing up to the Rose room, I took a seat in the same spot I had found him in that day. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing homework, reading various books, and even wandering around taking a few more pictures in the hopes of finding another subject that captivated me the way he had.
Sunday had passed in a similar manner, and by the time I made it home in the late afternoon as the sun was beginning to set over the tops of the buildings to the west, I was in complete pout mode.
Other than getting all the homework I had been neglecting so far this semester completed, the entire weekend spent at the library had been a failure. At least in terms of locating a certain curly haired boy.
Sunday evening I spent sitting in front of my laptop, going through the countless images I had taken over the fours years I had been in college. I honestly cant tell you exactly what had prompted me to sit there, curled up under a blanket, a cup of tea sitting ignored on the coffee table while I scrutinized every image I had ever taken. But for some reason I felt compelled to do so, and therefore, that was what I did.
I found it funny, by the time I made it half way through the images from my junior year, how the photographs I had been proud of, enough so to display and submit for grading, were ones I wouldn’t really consider showing people now. It was strange how your tastes changed as your skills develop. How you can see things you didn’t notice before when looking back on images you had once thought to be perfect.
I could remember quite clearly each image that I had taken. The surroundings, the subject, even some of the conversations that had occurred around them. I remembered the topic or assignment given for each, and why I chose the photograph I did. I was still proud of many of them, but I could see more flaws now that I had developed my knowledge and skill level the way I had.
I suppose that was how it was with any art form. As you progress and develop your craft, you can see the flaws in the starting products. You can almost see your progression and development over time, see how you grow and improve. Painting, writing, drawing, photography. It was all similar in that way. As with any art form, you had to practice and develop your craft. That was what I had been doing in college these last four years. And as I reached the images I had submitted in the first semester of my final year, I was proud with the improvements I had made.
Once I finished scrutinizing every image I had ever taken, I pushed my computer aside, resting my tired eyes. Mia had long ago left to meet with her study group, having a presentation due the following day. I knew she wouldn’t be back until later that night, since her type A personality always tended to pour over every detail to the point of obsession. Especially when some of those details were left to other people. Group work was the bane of any college students existence, especially for people like Mia who liked everything a certain way. She was practically twitching as she had left the apartment two hours before.
I stretched my sore legs outward along the couch, pulling the blanket further up my body to keep myself covered. I let myself lean back against the pillows behind me, my tired eyes gazing absentmindedly out the window in front of me over the lights of the city and buildings in view. It was dark now, the only lights beyond the warmth of my apartment being those of the street and city outside. It was completely quiet in the living room apart from the gentle hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Sighing to myself, I tilted my head against the back of the couch, crossing my arms over my chest.
I couldn’t ignore the disappointment I felt over the fact I hadn’t been able to find Harry despite my efforts. But what was more, was the embarrassment I felt over the fact I had just spent an entire weekend searching for him. Blatantly and stalkerish, sitting around looking for him in every face I saw. I literally spent the entire weekend at the library hoping to find him, all the while knowing that he had absolutely no interest in having his picture taken. He was not going to help me with this project, and yet I was unable to accept the notion of finding anything else as my subject. The more I thought about him, the more I saw his face in my mind, the more determined and certain I became.
Now, sitting alone in my apartment, I felt annoyed and anxious. Annoyed because I had just wasted an entire weekend hunting down this man, who even if I had found him was more than likely going to turn down my request and begging to let me photograph him. The anxiety came partly for the same reason; that I had just spent an entire weekend and a lot of effort on a subject that was probably not going to pan out, rather than seeking out a new one that had much more likely possibilities.
Despite my own personal loathing that increased the longer I laid on the couch like a lump, I still felt certain in my belief that Harry was the ideal subject. Even beyond that one moment, and beyond the look he held in that single image, I was intrigued by him. He was attractive, and enticing. There was something about him that made you want to know more, even beyond that lost expression he had held in his eyes for that short time.
I had spent hours by that point analyzing him, to the point there his face was almost committed to my memory. I didn’t even know him, and yet, I felt like I did. I didn’t know his last name, or where he was from. I didn’t know if he lived in the city, or was just visiting. I didn’t know what he did for a living, or what he liked, or anything about him at all.
But I knew the curve of his lip. I knew the color of his eyes, a soft green that made me think of fields and summer. I knew the line of his jaw, solid and strong, contrasted with the soft wave of his brown hair.
Pursing my lips, I reached out and pulled my laptop back across my legs. Opening it up, I opened the folder of images I had taken at the library that Thursday afternoon. Scrolling through them with only partial interest, I came across the two I had of Harry. The two pictures that proved I had not imagined him, and that I wasn’t putting all this effort and stalk into something that wasn’t real or a fluke.
My eyes slid over every curve and line of his face, over the fold of his hands on the text in front of him. I dissected the image over and over again before finally looking to his eyes. They were cast downward, and yet, there was just enough of a hint of green to draw you in. And more loss than I had ever seen in such a simple look.
I needed to decide what to do. Either I was going to continue my search for him, which would go more than likely unpleasantly even if I did find him, or I was going to give up and find another subject.
For some reason the thought of giving up on him for this project didn’t sit right with me. That fact bothered me as much as the fact I hadn’t been able to find him. I had never been this captivated by someone before. Never had I desired to photograph anyone as badly as I did this man I had met once, briefly, in a rather hostile encounter.
Looking at the image, I could see why I wanted to photograph him. Because the emotion he evoked was striking. However, going over the altercation in my mind, I couldn’t seem to get a grasp on why I was so enthralled with him. I hated confrontation, and usually would avoid it at all costs. I had no doubt that my request for him to pose for me would result in a confrontation, and yet, I was steadfast in that desire.
Looking over the close up image of his face one more time, I shook my head at myself before closing my laptop down.
I didn’t even know this man, and he was already fucking with my head.
***
“Beyond the question of creativity and art, is the question of ethics,” the professor stated firmly. “You are there as an observer. And outside party, of sorts. You are there to document and capture the world around you, even if what is occurring is something that you struggle with. Those in war zones, seeing the aftermath of genocide, seeing those abandoned and lost, struggle with those realities while at the same time trying to do the job they were hired to do. And that job is a simple one. Photograph what you see.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard of my laptop as I took notes and make comments from my favorite class. Art and catastrophe. I had taken it as an elective, my final elective to be able to graduate this spring. But it was by far the best course I had taken yet.
It examined something that was a strong probability for many of us graduating from the photography program. The crossroad in which our profession met with the unpleasant realities of life. Some of us would work for publications that feature stories and writings on the facets of the world that many people would prefer to not discuss. War, genocide, murder, and the like. As a photographer, it is your job to get the shot, even if that shot is of something that makes your stomach roll.
Despite the confliction, you cannot interfere. Like if you are watching a pride of lions take down a baby zebra. It is small and helpless, and you know making your presence known may scare the predators off. And yet, you know you cant interfere. It is nature. That is not your choice. It is your job to take the images, albeit gruesome, and show the reality of the animal world.
This course studies the struggles and truths of that. Where does art, such as writing and photography, fit in such situations? Some believe catastrophes should not be represented in the media, such as the war torn regions of Africa, where genocide is still rampant. Showing the aftermath of such events, brings awareness. Even to those you would prefer to stay ignorant. Others believe that the arts are the only thing that can heal, or help us remember events that changed us forever. Such as the image of the World Trade Center, of the firemen raising a flag in the middle of the ruins. That image gave hope, and courage, and showed those responsible that we would not be defeated. That they had not broken us.
Needless to say, I loved this course. The topics were challenging and thought provoking, and it was one of the few courses I had taken that I looked forward to each week, and captivated my attention throughout the entire two hours.
It was early Tuesday afternoon, and this was my final class of the day. The day before I had resolved to continue with my life despite the fact that Harry and his mysterious green eyes haunted my thoughts. I would return to the library on Thursday, at the same time I had met him originally, in the hopes that it was a habit of his to be there on that day, that time. But other than that, I had given up the active search for him. Partly, because I knew it was probably hopeless. He was one man in a city of millions. And partly because I was annoyed with how obsessed I had become with him over a single photograph.
This class helped me fall back into a sense of normalcy. It kept my attention and made me think, which also meant it kept my attention away from Harry, and made me think of something other than him.
“Each individual who chooses to work in the field of the arts when combined with media and journalism, needs to have a firm grasp on their own ethical beliefs and boundaries when entering into a story. There are times you have no idea what it is you will see, until you are there. But most of the time, you have a good idea. If you know before even starting that this may challenge you and push your boundaries in a negative way, don’t take the opportunity. You need to be clear on your job, and if you cant do it unbiased, reconsider the position.” She paused, taking in the torn expressions varying around the room. “I’m not saying you don’t have the right to feel. It is imperative that you do. You are showing the world, to the world. You are giving a glimpse into a reality that for many is unfathomable. You need to feel, and be passionate, and compassionate, and understanding. But you need to be separate, and be able to recognize where you role ends, and your own life begins.”
Checking her watch, the professor looked up with a smile. “That’s it for today. I will see you all next week.”
Immediately, the clammer of books, laptops and chatter filled the lecture hall with a gentle white noise. Where seconds ago it had be silent, so silent you could have heard a pin drop, suddenly the noise of student life returned. As if with the flick of a switch, we caught a glimpse of what our futures may hold, another world away, before being brought back to the here and now. A safe, warm classroom in the middle of Manhattan.
I slid my books into my backpack, my mind still going over the discussion from today, coupled with where I saw myself in the future.
Of course, I had my preferred job goals for when I graduated. I would love the opportunity to work for National Geographic, to travel the world, and capture parts of the earth rarely seen. Many of the instances we discussed in this class were ones I would face with such a job, and even though I was not blind enough to think I wouldn’t struggle with the confliction, I still desired the opportunity.
But another part of me wanted to stay in New York, and work for a fashion magazine. I loved the glamour and the variety, making ordinary people seem larger than life.
To be honest, I loved all avenues of photography, all the options it brought to me. Unfortunately, though, as with most jobs in recent years, ‘who you know’ played as big a part as your talent and drive. Especially when starting out. And even more so when starting out in such a competitive profession as photography.
Pulling my coat on, I slung my bag over my shoulder before exiting the lecture hall. My mind was still wrapped up in my own thoughts, thinking of images from different ‘catastrophes’ that became iconic, demonstrating the power of media and the endless possibilities of photography.
My eyes were down as I ventured down the hall towards the exit, completely oblivious to everything around me. Suddenly, I bumped into a warm, firm surface. I gasped, the air knocked from me as I fell backwards onto my rear end, landing with a little bounce. I sat still for a moment, shocked and surprised to find myself suddenly on the floor.
“Im so sorry,” a slightly familiar voice called out, squatting down to my level as I sat sprawled across the floor. “I didn’t see…” his apology was cut off in his throat as I looked up at him, my mouth falling open.
“Lane?” he queried, arching an eyebrow at me.
My stomach fluttered slightly at the fact he remembered my name, combined with the fact that I was now staring into the eyes that had haunted me for the last five days. Of all the possible encounters I had imagined in my mind for if I was able to locate this man again, none of them featured me being knocked to the ground on my ass.
Reaching a hand towards me, he pulled me to my feet, his eyes locked on my face, just as mine were to him.
“Harry,” I breathed.