7/10/02
It's another small town. You know the kind, an almost significant
intersection on an almost significant road. Biblical name, low
pop. number on the sign at the edge of town, right below the name.
Buildings all modest, remnants of industry in the service of
agriculture situated on the outskirts. The obligatory antique shops, bar,
crafts store, services, etc. make for a modest 'downtown'.
If the traffic light had been green, one could miss it while yawning.
Two photographers drift through. I am one of them.
We enter stores, and walk on one side of main street. I notice little basketball keychains for sale in almost every store.
Outside, the water tower is painted to resemble a gigantic
basketball towering over town, visible for miles. We walk on,
past a failed used-car business, more antiques, realtor's signs
on papered windows, to the corner, where a small, neatly-kept, privately owned fast food place stands Around the side, a graphic image of a serious statue of Liberty's head, looking indignant and concerned has been painted on a tie-dyed sheet. On one side are yellow flowers, a Pepsi sign, more signs. Above, yellow-tubed fluorescent tubes, vertical and inset under the overhang, lit. On the other side, a Pepsi machine. Behind the building, a two-story house with one of those inverted pyramid type of clotheslines. Beyond, the big basketball-in-the-sky, omniscient.
A rangefinder with 35mm lens fills my hand, and I frame
it all in, using fill to even out things. It is almost too perfect. The other photographer produces a Polaroid and starts shooting.
Three men appear on the bench on the sidewalk, right across
from the counter. I walk over, and one of them says "This is
as much excitement as we get around here". I ask about the
basketball, and it turns out that about a half-century ago, their
high-school team won the state championships. The man's
father and uncle were on that team. "it was a big thing for us,
he says wistfully. The others nod in agreement.
I sit at the table with my colleague. Polaroids strewn around,
looking like jewels, purest magic, catch my attention. We are in that strange, dislocated zone that happens when you're shooting. At the table to our left, a group of four or five children and a guy that looks barely in his twenties sit down to their ice cream. They call him "Daddy". Such fine country faces...the kind that Grant Wood would have loved to paint. My friend cannot resist, taking a few candids, then
asking permission, and moving over a bench by Liberty, she sits
two kids on it. The three men look on intently from the sidelines, now joined by a standing fourth. From a low viewpoint, images are made, the little blonde girl licks her ice cream, her tongue almost like a metronome. In awe, I watch in awe, feeling reverence. The Polaroids emerge, and the little girl is given the best one.
She runs and shows it to her young father. The other children
gather to see it, entranced. The little girl returns to her bench, and is
joined by a slightly older brother. The father holds the image
in one hand, while the kids look on.. This is my moment, a
kind of irresistible destiny. The camera, jumps to my eye, the flash calculations are like breathing, and I make two quick exposures while
listening to my friend's motordrive going klik-zzzzzt, klik-zzzt.
Suddenly, the moment is gone, we say good-bye, and turn to
see the bench on the sidewalk empty. The kids grin out the window
of a blue Dodge Shadow as they drive off, holding the Polaroid
up so we can se it.. We stop and buy a soda, smiling knowingly at each other, not quite back in real time. As we drive off, I turn and
stare at the basketball for some time.
--- Luis
