When Seagulls Sit in Line at the Memorial Park

“Someone may make it to another day. I will make it another time” read a Zen bumper sticker on the car stopped at the red light.  I was waiting for the light to change and next to a man who had not had all his teeth for a long time. He was incessantly phantom-chewing and grinding his misaligned vestigial teeth. He had many layers of clothing on, none matching, probably none originally his. His hair was ample and matted. The street belonged to him; and perhaps he belonged to the port. I often walk these streets on weekends but I had not seen him before. Maybe he had just come out of hibernation to ask money for a cup of coffee. Or a morning beer.

January has been very cold, and my walks have become shorter. My hands seem to be cold no matter how often I tuck them in my pockets; my ears get numb when my hands are cold. But a two mile walk to Baltimore’s East Harbor remains my favorite path.  Something about the lonesome benches at the Korean War Memorial Park that make me sit and think why we build memorials if no one visits them.  I have convinced myself that it is similar to writing a poem about a past love, or framing a photo of a passed lover: it makes us happy that we did with no desire to revisit them often.

I often take a vintage film camera with me even though during my walks all past year I have not shot a full roll of film. The box camera was made the same year I was born, and I feel good to know that it still works. On the last day of January I took it for a walk with me and left my dog at home. It was too cold outside and he wanted to curl up and dream of whatever eight year old dogs dream about on cold January days.

It snowed that morning on Baltimore. It was very picturesque and cozy. For a few short moments the visibility decreased so much that I felt alone in Fells Point. All around me was in a veil, in a thought, in a stroke of aquarelle painting. I was near the ocean, yet the ocean did not find me. I was cold and the metal frame of my camera was cold on my chest, even when kept under my coat. My ears were half frozen, yet I was happy to have the port all to myself.

I walked swiftly, as I knew that seagulls sit in impeccable lines on the boat launching dock at the Memorial Park. I suddenly had the desire to take a picture of them, lined up as soldiers or school boys, under the snow. So I picked up the pace of my walking, especially when I realized that the snow was about to stop falling.

“If you do not like the weather in Baltimore, wait 10 minutes,” they say. And they are right. It took me about 15 minutes to reach the park and take my box camera out from under my coat. By then, the sun had come out, out of nowhere! The wind had not changed though and was gusting and whistling around the empty benches and through the barren trees. The waves were now real waves and a few ducks were balancing upon and among them. The sky was open, but the cotton clouds made it crowded and unpredictable.

I walked toward the dock, hoping that the seagulls will be there. Common birds with common behaviors. Birds no one cares about, as they are always there. There is no discovery with seagulls; there is no passion in watching their flight. And yet, when I see them lined up like soldiers at a war memorial park, I find them noticeable. I look at them for a while just to realize that they do not look back at me. They just sit there looking in one direction. Till for whatever reason, one seagull decides to move, shake a leg, or stretch a wing. Then a second one follows, and often a third one too. They fly around the area, look down as troop scouts would do, and then land back within the lines of the rest. They do not return to the same spot where they were, even though the other seagulls had not re-positioned themselves. I have watched the group for quite a few whiles and have not found a pattern to the process. Perhaps not yet.

So, I decided to take a picture of the seagulls. It is the most non-creative thing to do, taking pictures of sitting seagulls. I almost felt like I should check around first to make sure no one sees me do this. An old man with an old camera taking pictures of sitting seagulls on an utterly frigid day of January. After setting the speed and aperture, I looked down the waist-level viewfinder. The twin lens camera allows you to see the photo framed as it will come out. Looking at the ground glass Fresnel where the picture was shown in reverse, I could not justify taking a picture. It was the most boring thing: a bunch of common birds sitting in a row next to the water. But, I recalled that the film has been in the box camera for many months now, and that out of the 12 frames I can shoot, I had shot 10. Two to go and then I can develop the film and be surprised of what comes out. Because I did not recall what most of the other 10 shots were about.

I decided to bracket: two shots, two combinations of shutter speed and lens aperture. I got down on my knees to level off with the birds. The ground was cold and wet from the morning snow. I re-positioned a few times, and then shot before-last frame. As I stood up, I realized how silly the whole thing was. An old man, looking down into a 1950’s camera viewing glass, taking pictures of sitting seagulls.

I walked home against the gusting wind. The two miles felt long and cold. When I opened the front door, my dog was asleep behind it. He yawned, stretched, and wanted to go out. I wanted to take my shoes off and make hot tea. But went out as if to tell him “Didn't I tell you? It is cold. So lift your leg, do your thing, and let’s get back so I can develop my film.”

Half an hour later, as I looked at the wet strip of film negative under the red light in my darkroom, I said to myself: “hmm, the clouds look really good on that last shot!”  When I decided to insert that frame into my 1950s enlarger and print it on 8x10 paper, I realized that even the most common and boring subjects, when within the right environment, can make the moment memorable. And I recalled a saying by Confucius above the entrance door of the oldest temple in Tainan, Taiwan: “Everyone can be taught”. Perhaps anyone can make a boring moment interesting?

Today, in my darkroom, it hit me: anyone can be attractive, interesting, surprising. It is the angle of view, the context, and the celebration of the ordinary that count. And the belief that the last frame of film, or our interest to discover, can capture that moment, “and make it to another day.”

So, I decided to frame this picture.

February 2, 2013

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013