The One That Stood Out

 

The space and light in the hall complemented the photographer’s exhibition. The artist interacted with the crowd, receiving praise and criticism, answering queries. Experts and laypersons mingled, admiring the distinctive style; each image a flawless execution of exposure, filters, speed, perspective and finish; a mixture of mesmerizing stillness and captivating action; lush landscape contrasted with brutal war, birth of society in graveyard towns, love’s embrace in death’s company.

But, at the center, where the pièce de résistance should have been, the crowd found a photograph incongruous and amateurish. They responded with bewilderment, embarrassment, protest, deference, speculation and dismissal.

The photograph was taken on cheap black-and-white film with an automatic camera of the use-and-discard variety. The background was a blurred mass of grimy faces, bodies and clothes of hopeless refugees, a dark heaving tired monster trudging forward. The out of focus picture showed a mother with a baby, cradled in her left arm, suckling at her bare breast. The photographer’s left hand can be seen, holding the mother’s right hand.

The artist explained, ‘We had been marching for a week. My mother was raped and murdered two days later. My sister was also killed then. I survived, and that camera.’

 The crowd listened politely. One remarked that it was sad. Another suggested that it seemed out of place.

He admitted, ‘I was very young.’