Lamia

"When it rains this hard, the world looks like a square negative.  Like I am looking through the picture finder of my Rolleiflex.  I can even smell the hibiscus flowers near my window.”

We were of that age when revolt was everything.  Our socks did not match; our hair covered eyelashes and our necks.  We were now university students and gave ourselves the right to be who we wanted to be.  As long as we could.

The shared bathroom of the dormitory was transformed into a makeshift darkroom.  A basic enlarger, three trays, and a red light.  A fishing line was secured across opposite doors with four cloth pins on it to hang wet 26 x 33 cm sheets.  Around the sink was the clutter of empty film canisters, graduated 500 ml flasks we borrowed from the organic chemistry lab, and two developing cans.  She shot medium format only, and I liked the simplicity of 35 mm.

“Alex got Dutch tobacco from his cousin who returned from Europe.  He said we can gather in his room tonight.”

September was rainy around the Mediterranean.  Yet the always pleasant weather kept trees and flowers in blossom all year.  And the light was just right in September for portraits under a cherry tree right after the rain stopped. 

We both earned our petty cash doing portraits while not in the chemistry or biology labs.  It was an easy way to let students kiss in front of a shallow depth of field representing the Mediterranean Sea.  Or we captured the sadness of a young man who did poorly on a test.  And sometimes, we arranged for the portrait of a parent who was visiting the campus.

… It was raining heavy on September 22, 1977.  I remember the date because I took a picture of her sitting by the window, holding her big toes, her knees bent upon her chest.  She was not happy that day.  She could not smell the hibiscus flowers next to her window.  Her ancestral home was damaged by rocket fire, I learned.  She did not know if anyone was hurt.

“Damn war!  Sometimes I feel like I should sell my Rolleiflex and buy a Kalashnikov.”

“And you will become a street fighter with a degree in biochemistry?”

She was biting her nails harder that afternoon.  Her nails were almost gone, the tips of her fingers swollen.  It was a habit I did not understand, especially when she was in the darkroom burning her raw cuticles with the acidic “Stop Bath” solution.  Yet, it gave her hands a special character.  They showed intensity.  Perhaps even passion.  Definitely pain. I took a picture of her hands holding her toes, next to the window, on that rainy afternoon.

… I was going through my old albums last weekend.  And I found a picture of her, with that angry and sad face.  She was underexposed given the bright back light of the window.  The uncoated lens shows excessive flare as well. Yet, I could hear her again exclaiming “Damn war”.

And, on the right of the picture, a calendar was on the wall indicating it was September 22, 1977.  A calendar from the “Bureau De Tourisme du Liban”, showing the snow covered mountains calmly populated by Cedar trees.

The Russian Kiev camera I used those days has long been broken.  And I wonder if she ever sold her Rolleiflex.

June 25, 2010

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013