Having completely failed to live up to yesterday’s resolution to be more organised, I left myself with no choice but to go out this evening armed with a speedlite as well as my camera. I’m no great fan of on-camera flash, but it seems that in the run up to the end of the year I may have little choice. Still, practice makes perfect so it should at least allow me to become more creative with that piece of kit.
Not only was it dark, but also wet and windy. Perfect conditions for keeping people off the streets.
I suspected that if all of these covered food warmers were in use, that even the promise of “all you can eat” would leave the owners of this Indian buffet with a lot of waste to dispose of.
With so few people about I was resigned to having to wait for a suitable subject, and as it was too windy to practically manoeuvre my umbrella as well as the flash laden camera, I sought refuge at the entrance to an underpass near the Wear Bridge. Here there was some light so as not to surprise people by appearing suddenly from the shadows so I felt confident that I would find someone.
Soon enough a young girl with a knitted hat was walking towards me followed by a man pushing two small children who were asleep in a buggy. The girl spoke to me, but was completely unintelligible (East European I think?) so I didn’t think a portrait discussion was worth pursuing. Still, the man looked promising, and agreed to be photographed. It was as I asked his name that the penny dropped. It was Kenneth who I had photographed only a couple of weeks ago. Doh!
His children would have made a fabulous picture as they both slept, but it seemed a shame to wake them with the flash, so I bade Kenneth goodbye. (Sorry Kenneth, that should have been Kemesia!).
Luckily I didn’t have to wait much longer before another African came my way. We negotiated over his picture. What would he get from allowing me to take his photograph? The opportunity to download a copy if he liked it. That was good, he needed a good photograph to use. He wanted to preserve an air of mystery too. What should I call him?
“Just say that like the rain I fell from the sky” he replied!
Travelling home from work today I was listening to Digital Human on the radio and in particular a piece about Chris Kirkley’s search for authentic music in West Africa, and his discovery that a fiercely independent music culture such as that in Mali had developed surprising ways with the advent of technology. Using pirated software bands are recording songs in MP3 format and then sharing them actively using bluetooth file transfer on their mobile phones.
The music remains staunchly sub-Saharan, but the method of broadcast shows the intrusion of western technologies, but on the Malian’s own terms. The bonus of the programme was that there was some great incidental music, the downside, that it didn’t come with a track listing!
I’m no expert on world music, but it has always exerted some hold on me. Long before Paul Simon’s controversial Graceland, the music of other cultures enthralled me. Milestones in this musical journey have included much of Peter Gabriel‘s output, the Burundi drums of Joni Mitchell’s The Jungle Line, an album of Himalayan Melodies by Sarangi that I recognised in the alleys of Kathmandu from a hearing at a restaurant the previous evening, and of course:
This was an album bought by a school friend purely on the basis of having Brian Eno‘s name on the label. His collaboration with trumpeter Hassell paved the way for the masterpiece that Eno would record with David Byrne; My Life in the Bush of Ghosts. Featuring all manner of electronic treatments on a trumpet that sounds nothing like the horn you might expect, my friend hated this album and it eventually found its way to my collection. I too found it a bit of an oddity, but over the years it has grown in appeal, and other works by Hassell have come my way.
Whatever the method, our sharing of music helps define us wherever we are in the world.
Appropriately enough my portrait today is of a young West African man, Kenneth. Another Nigerian, I asked him to teach me how to say goodbye in his dialect, which I’m ashamed to say I promptly forgot, and all attempts to find the phrase in Hausa or Yoruba have failed me, so I must resort to Kiswahili and wish him kwaheri and assante sana.