"The All Souls' Procession" or "Do We Really Need More Cameras In The World?" © 2007 Stu Jenks
Like
how ingesting hallucinogens makes boring things interesting but
conversely, how Acid tends to destroy the magic of a naturally ecstatic
experience, so was having a camera with me at the All Souls' Procession like smoking a joint in church. I got a few images that I like but
I took 300. (And unfortunately I had an operator/camera problem, when,
at some point, I knocked my viewfinder focuser, so when I thought I was
manually focusing things sharp I was actually manually focusing things soft.)
And after seeing the clusterfuck of other photographers and
videographers, both professional and amateur in and around the
Procession, it made me want to do as The Firesign Theatre instructed me to
do 30 years ago, which was to 'cut off the soles of my shoes, climb a
tree and learn to play the flute.' Or at least retreat to my studio and
play my mandolin for nights on end.
OK, OK. I'll take my late father's advice and wrap my critique with positive statements, fore and aft.
The
energy was phenomenal on Sunday night. I'm a pretty grounded
metaphysical guy but there were definitely more that just the 15,000
living souls that marched from Fourth Avenue to the Stone Avenue Docks. I felt the presences of many spirits, first at the Docks at
dusk while talking with Paul and Jefe, and later as I walked with the
Seven Pipers bagpipe band. It was like a good fantasy and science
fiction movie, with the spirits of ancestors, loved ones and even pets,
flying lovingly overhead and throughout the crowd. I kid you not, and I
was as sober as a deacon.
The
organizers, performers, and volunteers were very charming, competent,
and ever-professional, providing space, safety and spiritual artistry
for all of us. They gave the throngs a great gift that night. Most of
the other photographers like myself who had all access passes, were
courteous and unselfish. Almost all of the walkers were devout,
centered, and focused on honoring the Dead, both personal and
universal. And many of the spectators who lined the route were
appreciative and in awe.
That said:
Do we really need any more fucking cameras or photographers in the world?
Photographers
from the crowd, both hobbyist and serious pros, were jumping into the
devout, putting a camera in their faces, hitting them with the strong
flash. They might as well as been hitting us in the head with
baseball bats. Cellphone cameras, Point and Shooter and SLRs were
popping all of us walkers with bright repeated light as if we were Paris Hilton coming
out of a bar. Early on, I took some images of the Urn and I was guilty
as well, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was
politely told to move by one of the organizers and I felt appropriate
ashamed and got the fuck out of their way. I didn't use a flash all night
but just cranked up the speed to 1600 and shot with a wide-open
aperture. Soon after the procession began, I faded away from the front
and drift back toward the Pipes. I took a dozen shots with the pipers
but mostly I just cried and misted up a lot while they played Amazing
Grace or Scotland The Brave or any number of jigs. I had to seriously
hold back from quaking when they played one particular reel.
But the cameras! Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty! It was just too fucking much.
I
got to the Docks where the finale took place a little early and stood
backstage for 30 minutes before the fire, the spinning, the dancing and
the drumming began. I saw friends old and new who are pro photographers and
they were very respectful and professional taking their shots and aware
of the sacredness of the moment. I felt a bit shy myself, in my camo-kilt,
not wanting to up stage anything at all, not wanted to be in the way of
anyone. I think I succeeded in that. I was also aware of the other
photographers, not wanting to be in each others' shots. I took around 200
images total at the docks and got about five good ones (Remember the
focusing problem?), but now I wish I had taken much less. I was drawn
into the drum-pounding, fire-spinning, soul-swirling moment often, but
I would quickly pull my self out of the stream to shoot an image, and
then it took a number of minutes for me to get back in the Soul Flow.
Having
great backstage access comes with the responsibility and expectation of
being courteous, patient and mature, and I was, up until a moment near the
end, where I slightly lost my shit.
One
of the videographers there, wasn't really a jerk but he did seem to feel
like he was the most important person on stage. During the
performances, he seem to have his apparent need to ALWAYS be close to the action,
hence he was ALWAYS in my shots. ALWAYS! I was just an annoyance for a while, for I could mostly shoot around him,
but after his large black form moved into shot #35, I got pissed. First
I just shook my head, and let it go. Then I rechurned the anger,
thinking about how he might be fucking it up for those who are just
trying to watch the performance, to see, unobstructed, the beautiful
men and women hold the fire, or the large troupe of drummers playing their
hearts out or the mysterious Poi People spinning fire. If he could fly, he would have been up with the women and the balloons. But I mostly let it go.
Then the last straw came.
It
was the grand finale, the Burning of the Urn. The Horned Man, who had
pulled the Urn through the entire parade route, walked to in front of
the scaffolding where the Urn was hovering thirty feet above the
ground. A crane truck held the Urn, waiting to raise it high in the sky.
Helpers light the Spiral that surrounded the scaffolding. The Spiral exploded
into flame. The flames rose to ignite The Urn. The Horned Man stood guard alone in front. Anticipation was high. The crowd began to cheer.
It was an amazing thing to see. I popped a shot from 30 yards away. Too
early. I waited for the moment. The moment came. I pushed the shutter and then
I saw him. The Videographer In Black, near the scaffolding, in my shot,
in everyone's shot. A visual turd on the scene, at the climax. I waited for him to
leave but he didn't. He just kept shooting tape. I took the camera down
from my eye. I mumbled Mother Fuck. And I then yelled six
words in his direction, knowing full well that it was too noisy for him
to hear, with the Big Drums playing just behind me. But I yelled it anyway.
"Get the fuck out of my shot!
He
didn't hear. I didn't really yell that loud. I shook my head. It just felt good
to say it. I put my 30D in my eye and waited. Finally, he left the shot
and I got mine.
I
saw the visual greed of photography that night. I do it too some times,
caught in the moment, forgetting there are other people, other things
more important than a goddamn photograph. And we don't 'shoot photos'
anymore in the digital age. We 'capture images'. And those verbs,
'shoot' and 'capture' denote a certain level of violation and violence.
Whether we trap and hunt things with cameras, is it still right? Is it
really necessary to have a record to show your friends? Isn't it ego for
many of us? 'Are you jealous? Look what you missed last night,' we think as we shot the back of our camera to a friend. Again,
I salivate like the next photog over getting a great image but I do try
and be respectful of other people, of other photographers, and of other
cultures (even though an anonymous Cheyenne recently flamed me on my
blog about taking pictures of prayer bundles at Bear Butte, who
probably wouldn't agree with my self-assessment.)
It's
no wonder I got out alone in the desert, night and day, and take
pictures of hoops, spirals, and The Moon, of rocks, sky and prayers. I'm just
uncomfortable today with the great invasion of photography in
America. Another example, if you ask me, of the general lack of boundaries by White People and of a systemic country-wide
Narcissism.
I've
said for years that I'm not really a photographer but just an artist
who uses a camera. Now I'm having doubts about being an artist using a
camera at all. I remember a photography teacher I had at Pima, who quit her job and went to
medical school, asking 'Do we really need another photograph
in the world?' and that was in 1997 before everyone had a cell phone camera.
That tree and that flute of The Firesigns looks mighty appealing. The new mandolin on my horizon looks even sweeter.
I
questioned myself. 'Am I depressed or something?' I don't think so. I
think I'm just grieving the loss of a culture of courtesy and
kindness. And I'm just trying to find a way to bring a little light to a dark world, in my Art and Music, in spite of it all. It's just seems to
be getting harder to find Softness, Innocence, Truth, and Beauty these
days. Guess I'll just have to continue to make my own.
So
please don't see me as being overly critical of the All Souls'
Procession and of all photographers. Anything but. Just one or two or two hundred assholes in the
bunch and it makes everyone look bad. I'm
sure for every rude photographer along the parade route who jumped in front
of me to shot the face of a piper, there were ten on the curb who shot
from over there, or who just took a good picture with just their eyes.
The drummers on Sunday (and there were many in the Procession) pounded their beats loud,
strong and passionate. The dancers swayed with great grace and
skill. The Poi spinners made big circles of fire that all the ghosts
loved. The human 'Beasts of Burden' were witnesses for us all. The acrobat suspended from the balloons flew like the angel she was. And most of all, the walkers with their huge paper mache heads,
their floats shaped like dogs, their big black hats, their painted
white face and black eyes, their glowing hula hoops, their bikes like
horses, their camouflage kilts, their wedding dresses, their street
clothes....all of them brought a joy, sadness, and reverence to Tucson's
Long Dance For The Dead. And God bless them all for that.
[My
Dad died six years ago and I miss him. A couple years ago I gave Adam a jpeg of a
photo of my grandfather Earl, who I never knew, and I saw Earl
projected large on a big screen at the Docks that night, along with
hundreds of other images of the deceased. Thanks, Adam. Maybe next year
I'll give you a photo of my father Stuart.
My
Scottish ancestors were forced to leave Inverness in the 1770's during
the time of the cruel Highland Clearances and I'm sad about that. That's
why I wear the kilt and my Clan McLean tartan at All Soul's. Just in
case you're wondering.
And I'm grateful to the men and women who made love before me, who eventually made my parents, who eventually made me.
Finally I love you, Dad. Hope you had a good time on Sunday. All of the living sure did.]
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