Trajectory of a Street Photographer

Vietnam Series, 1998. Co u r t esy o f Jo h n Pef f er I paid for it to be repaired with my own money, which I had earned from a commission for a sale of a complete set of Collin's encyclopedias during school vacation in I973, I only had this camera for two years before my neighbor came to borrow it (in my absence), from my sister. I never saw the damn camera again. In those two years, however, I cherished that camera. It helped me overcome my awkwardness around strangers. I got invited to parties and social gatherings. My social status was enhanced. Everywhere I went strangers would approach me to have their photograph made or simply to talk, all because I was lugging a camera. Conversations revolved around the features of the camera. They would appraise the value of the camera according to weight or the width and length of the eye (lens). They asked me whether I could shoot colour or black & white or both, and whether the lens could see in the dark. I was often asked if 1 could shoot photographs inside a house, or when it was cloudy or windy or raining. Cameras carried an aura and a mystical fascination for a lot of people. People would stop me just to gape at the apparatus or to look through the viewfinder. It was as though the act of looking through the camera transformed and enchanted the landscape or person through the viewfinder. To be photographed was a privilege they paid for, except friends, acquaintances and relatives . Cameras in whatever condition were difficult to come by because they were said to be too expensive. They were considered rather complicated. When you did chance upon one it carried with it a kind of an invisible DO NOT TOUCH sign, like the legend of the skull and cross- bones with the words Danger/ lngozi emblazoned beneath them, or the "zig- zag' sign one might find on a power station. Our ignorance about how cameras operated gave them an irresistible allure. Cameras were the preserve of specialists ; the press, men on "government business ', a few rich families and educated people . This probably explains my artificial social elevation. Looking back, I am still amazed that a schlemiel like myself made a career of photography . I have always been nervous around machines, including cars (I do not drive), computers, answering machines, microwave ovens and any new technology. Part of my paralysis around things mechanical reflects the experience of an impoverished upbringing : "Leave other people's things be', "I cannot pay for the damned thing to be fixed.' And later "You think this lens was made in Soweto?' I began to learn the photography trade as a street- photographer. As a roving portrait or street- photographer you charged a deposit for each and every exposure you made for a client. You then hoped you had enough business to finish a roll of film or as many rolls of film in a weekend so you could come back the next weekend with the finished prints in order to collect the balance. You had to sell all the exposures you made, including the "lemons' that came about through sloppy technique, glitches in the print and processing laboratory or as a result of using outdated films. You could make enemies for life if you did not return all the exposed prints you made of the subject . In the language of the township, then 4 2 • Nk a Jo u r n al of Cont em p or ar y Af rican Art and now, photographs are not developed, they are washed. Technical mishaps such as over- or under- exposure were considered "burns', for an example; "Why did you burn my face so much? Why am I so black? Why do you make me look like an albino? I don't like his (read the photographer's) pictures because he burns people'. "I can't pay you for this/ these picture(s) because it is/ they are burnt. You have to do them again.' Cropping was considered particularly ominous. I remember my mother- in- law's response when she saw an image...