"I take photo? It ok?" (or, "Ethics and Photography Methodology")

It seems that photographers often disregard the living and breathing context around them and do whatever it takes to get the shot that they are looking for, that they 'need.' In the name of publication, in the name of a demanding editor, in the name of promotion, regular social rules are broken and the photographer points a metal box into someone’s face. The outcome is, usually, beautiful pictures that could not be taken if social rules had been adhered to. But I wonder, is it ethical?

Let me give an example. I was at a performance tonight of two well-known musicians from New York. A photographer from the university paper walked up to the stage during the performance, in his gym shorts and bright orange t-shirt, and started snapping pictures of the instruments and the performers. I’m sure they were great pictures, but it was very distracting for the audience, never mind the musicians.

I respect performance space. I’ve had a definite sense of boundaries ever since I gave a piano recital in 4th grade and a boy my age put his chin on the edge, staring straight at my lanky fingers. I wanted to play a scale up the piano and smack him in the face! Performance space is sacred. A photographer breaks the charm and draws attention away from the central space.

The ethics of space becomes messier when placed in a context of poverty. When I lived in Uganda, we would walk around the slums and visit widows and orphans with HIV/AIDS. These people are noble and beautiful, broken and hungry all at the same time. Perfect photographing opportunities, right? When those slick and glossy pictures from World Vision are walking and breathing and living around you, there is an urge to pull out the camera and begin snapping. This is exactly what some western visitors did when they visited the slums. After a brief 'agreement' of a nod from Victim Exhibit A, snap snap! their face is stuck in a metal box. I admit: I’ve done this. But my boss asked me one day, "You are taking away their voice, their face, and what are you giving back?" I began to see this kind of photography as a type of exploitation. Here’s the rich white westerner going into poor dirty slum with fancy camera, capturing images in boxes, and going back home to showcase a brilliant portfolio. What does the "subject" receive? Nothing. "Exploitation: to use unfairly for one’s own advantage." Hm.

This issue of ethics and fieldwork methodology seems to be a fundamental difference between my two degrees--journalism and ethnomusicology. In journalism, you get the shot no matter what that means. Capture the moment, we’re told. Be there. Do what it takes to get a clean background, a neat shot. Ethnomusicology, on the other hand, espouses more of a participant-observation approach. You become part of the scene. Listen. Stay out of the way. Make notes and interact with people, but don’t let your presence affect the scene in any way.

I know that a good argument can be given for the purposes of either side. I know the output of both professions are much appreciated, by different audiences and for different purposes. But how do I be an excellent photographer without being a jerk? I have not yet found a balance that I am comfortable with.

Your comments most welcome!

honeymooning grad school

These days are full of meeting new people, trying to remember names, figuring out exactly how many minutes it takes to bike to class, delving into subjects I've wanted to study for a long time (like ethnomusicology and photography), discovering places to dance!, and beginning to commit to a few things beyond the basics. Basically, I'm having a great time and am not nearly as overwhelmed as I anticipated (but maybe I'm speaking too soon? or maybe it's just the glorious fact that everything is in English and I understand what's going on?).

They say the first stage of cross-cultural adjustment is like a honeymoon--everything is great; there are some emotional highs and lows, but the sun is shining and life is good. Bloomington isn't exactly cross-cultural, but whatever you want to call it, I'll ride this honeymoon as long as I can. It will probably change with the weather, haha... check back here in about two months.

The Church talks a lot about a theology of suffering, a theology of going through the rough times. We memorize the Phil. 4:13 and Ps. 23 passages. But what about a theology of joy, even a theology of monotony, when everything is going along smoothly? I'm convinced that at the center of this theology must lay an outpouring of thanksgiving and appreciation. By my door, I have this verse posted:

Rejoice always
Pray without ceasing
In everything give thanks.

Then next to that, I've put up a sheet where I write things I'm thankful for. Some bits up there now: Baganda music in the archives, the smell of wet earth after long fall rains, tired green leaves ready to burst into color, blue skies, audio transformers, recognizing familiar faces at new places, bike brakes that work in the rain, and new friends over coffee. This kind of conscious daily thanksgiving helps, well, helps the honeymoon last. Of course I'm far from having this a 24/7 life attitude, but hey, it's a start right?

On another not-so-holy note, I got hit by a car the other day. Notice how I wrote that. I *got hit by* a car. It was clearly all the car's fault. Never mind that I was crossing a street during (the wrong direction's) green light, onto a one-way (the wrong way) street. Oh no, that $&#*@ car swiped my front tire and drove off. I didn't fall but the speed at which it happened certainly took me by surprise and I gave my best "what the hell?!" glare to the fading outline of the driver. Damn car. Ok, and stupid me. I really have got to let go of the aggressive riding style I adopted in Viet Nam. There are a lot of cars here and they go fast and stay in their lanes (imagine that!), leaving little space for bikers. I think it should be a requirement for drivers (and pedestrians, for that matter) to live for at least a month in a place like Viet Nam to understand the marvelous riverlike flow of traffic. In Viet Nam, when someone crosses a street, they just start walking and the traffic flows beautifully around them. But here, crossing pedestrians look at me speeding towards them and stop in their tracks, like "oa! that bike is headed right towards me." It's more like a cement wall than a river. See, one month in Hanoi would solve so many problems.

Ok, off my stump. Another week awaits me and I must begin it with sleep.

new horizons

After a whirl of traveling, seeing old friends and family, and packing or unpacking many times, I have learned that it's not natural for the body to travel over 16,000 miles in the span of a month. Someone once said that the body is not meant to travel faster than an oxcart, and I certainly see the wisdom of that now! But I've landed in Bloomington, Indiana and have permanently unpacked my boxes and bags, breathing a sigh of relief--"ah, now I can relax in grad school!"

Well, maybe not. I have registered for 12 credits, which I've heard is a dangerous amount. Oh, plus my job. The thing is, I'm really excited about everything I'm doing, so while I may burn up this semester, at least the fire will be a energizing, exciting one. I'm taking "The Study of Ethnomusicology" (lots of reading), "Intensive Reporting, Writing, and Editing" (lots of writing), "Photojournalism" (lots of visual work), and "Ghanaian Performance and Culture" (lots of singing and dancing!). So the hope is that the diversity of assignments will balance out the sheer mass of it all.

I'm working 15 hrs/week as a GA at the Archives of Traditional Music, mostly digitizing old analog field recordings. My introductory training included this defensive quote: "The field of audiovisual archiving rarely shares the glamour or profile of the industries whose output it protects. It is neither well funded nor well known, and is often very demanding of time and energy. It attracts and holds motivated individuals with a sense of vocation, for whom the achievements of their work are their own reward." Motivated--yes; sense of vocation--hmm? But I'm excited to get my hands back on audio equipment!

I would be remiss in this blog if I didn't give a shout out to my wonderful family for helping me move in and settle into my new house. Together we did in just one day what would have taken me over a month... unpacking, decorating, cleaning, shopping, etc etc. We even managed to squeeze in a picnic dinner and lots of good conversations. I should also note that my house has plenty of space for visitors, so my doors are open to you, my friends...

"Oh! Right..." -initial impressions and reactions-

I'm writing now from Akron, Pennsylvania, after traveling nearly 40 hours from Hanoi, through Hong Kong and LA, to Philadelphia. It's been 11 months since leaving this place I think I call "home," and I've been keeping a list of things that surprise me or that I've forgotten about:

• water fountains. Public water. For. Free. Too bads it tastes like chlorine.
• bottled water for $5. $5!!! That much would buy about 10 bottles in Hanoi...
• informality between officials, store clerks, and me. Maybe it's just because I can actually understand what they're saying now, but I'm taken back by how friendly and chatty people are here.
• cool, dry air that smells amazing. I was trying to figure out what it is that smells so wonderful and fresh, but I'm pretty sure it's just the lack of exhaust fumes and pollution. Whatever it is, it smells and feels like HOME.
• diversity. Standing in the "US-passport holders" line, I was amazed at the diversity of people standing with me.
• passing money with one hand. In Vietnam, it's polite to give money or other items with two hands. Not so here.
• overhearing conversations in English-! I was expecting this, but it really is an amazing thing to be waiting in a line (and LINES themselves are another blessed surprise) and understand the people around me. Too bad they're complaining.
• cheese. Gobs of it on my pizza.
• gallons of real skim milk rolling by in a cart (at the airport). Skim milk!
• I'm no longer a giant. Looking in a mirror, I'm not conspicuous. People are big here. This also means that I loose my birds-eye perspective in big crowds.

I'm sure more surprises will come. I've only been here a day, after all. But it feels real good. All the SALTers are together for a re-entry retreat, so we're doing lots of story-swapping, laughing, and sleeping. Good times...

motorbikes to the market!

Come to Vietnam and you will be astounded by what Vietnamese can fit on their motor scooters. When I first came I was continually surprised at the huge loads of vegetables on motos, a man driving and a woman crouched down in front of him with her head just barely visible; or nine bird cages (yes I counted) precariously hanging behind the driver, the birds twittering along in the traffic; or long metal poles five times the length of the moto being transported to some construction site; or a family of five crammed on one moto. These things amazed me.

But I've been here almost one year by now. Not much fazes me any more. I hardly look twice at the 3-foot stack of eggs breezing by me.

This morning, however, I nearly fell off my bike as a moto pulled past me with a full cow laid on the back, its skinned hide bright and white, its nose bouncing off the pavement on one side, its tail flying in the wind on the other, its legs flopping around with every bump, and its eyes staring...straight at me. I guess you have to get your goods to the market somehow and if all you have is a moto, well, moto it is.