When I am asked about my work, one of the questions that often comes up is 'How much difference does it make that I am a woman?' And I have to agree that it does make a huge difference, that plenty of the situations I have been in would not have been accessible to a man, or if a man had been present the atmosphere would have been very different.
Right now I am working in Saudi Arabia and for the first time, in a strange contradictory way, it seems actually to be a disadvantage to be able to get so close. I will try and explain...
Much of society here is still deeply conservative and lots of places and events are segregated, including weddings where two separate wedding parties are held. So when you are invited to a gathering at someone's house, all the men are kept away so that it can be a women- only event. As the women arrive they take off their abayas (the long black gown all women have to wear here), their headscarves, and niqab (the face covering that many also choose to wear) to reveal fancy clothes underneath. But, they only do this because there are no men present and so taking photographs for anything other than personal use is strictly forbidden. At wedding halls they even ban cameras altogether from the party because, due the ease of sharing digital photographs, there is a fear that men might see pictures of the women uncovered and dancing.
If a man turns up at an all-women gathering, everyone will grab something to make sure that they are suitably covered for the eyes of men. This happened every day at the photography workshop that I was giving when the male caterers came in to bring the lunch. Any pictures taken at other times during the workshop would have to be for personal use only.
This led me to the strange conclusion that it would actually be easier to be taking photographs as a man, because that way you could be sure that the women were covered as much as they would want to be for the eyes of men (there are also some women who don't choose to cover their clothes and their hair in mixed company). As a man the limits are clearly defined, but for me the lines between my personal and professional relationships with the women I meet are blurry.
Not wanting to abuse the trust of the women who have allowed me to see into their private world, I am faced with an unusual dilemma of how to take pictures of it.
I have photographed many fairs in my time, but this is the strangest of them all. I am at IDEX (International Defence Exhibition), at the Exhibition Centre in Abu Dhabi, one of the biggest arms fairs on the planet. It is strategically important because Middle Eastern countries are big buyers of arms, but also because the fair is so well positioned to attract delegations from around the world. One is aware of the volatility in the region, hastening defence spending up the agenda of these oil rich States. Over 150 delegations have come here with one thing in mind: to spend their defence budgets on the latest technology.
The fair starts on a Sunday, and this is the VIP day. Even on the other days of the fair, getting in is no easy matter: no public allowed, all potential visitors vetted and accredited with great care. VIP day is just like that, with a smattering of the press corps. After the opening ceremony, with singing and dancing from local schoolchildren and the inevitable fly-past, the delegates start cruising round, on a mission to spend. However unlike most fairs I have attended, not one price is displayed. I imagine these prices are very negotiable, depending on quantity ordered and scale of commitment. One thing is certain: everything is expensive. During IDEX 2007, (the fair is biannual) $545 million changed hands. This year however there are reports that contracts of over 20 Billion US dollars are being negotiated.
Pictures from an event like this rarely live up to the moment. I often say that pictures from things like this are usually not good the day of or the day after. They only become good 10 or 20 years from now. Kinda like wine, I guess. But if there is a part of my job description that is actually useful to people, it is the historian part (I'll spare us all another discussion about subjectivity/objectivity). Maybe the pictures will be interesting later... I think they will be for me, at least. For now, the event itself was far more interesting than the pictures.
Being in a crowd of 2 million people is a little disconcerting. And I don't like crowds very much. But everyone was very well behaved. My problem was that the Presidential Inauguration Committee issued a worthless credential that kept me and many of my colleagues out of the event for hours. seems the DC police had not been informed about our credential. On assignment for Newsweek I spent 4 hours walking from checkpoint to checkpoint before I finally made it in. Frustrating because I spent most of the event trying to get in rather than working. But I was glad to just be there. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but I have never experienced a sense of unity and equality among a group of people like I did that day. Not saying that it will last more than that day, or that problems of inequality and race ended when Obama was sworn in, but for a couple of hours, it felt like we got a glimpse of what it really could be like.
Several weeks ago I took part in the World Press Photo Masterclass in Holland. I stayed a few days after it ended to visit some family that lives in Holland. The class had been really intense, and before heading off to my cousin's house, I decided to spend a few hours walking around Amsterdam to sift through my thoughts.
While walking around I randomly stumbled upon a parade. It was mobbed by young kids with their parents and grandparents, and the mood was deliriously festive. Curious, I approached the parade's edge, and inched in for a spot to see what was happening. A continuous line of many hundreds (thousands?) of Dutchmen dressed in blackface with afro wigs and brightly painted red lips were marching down the street and handing out candy to shrieking children. Some performed tricks on rollerblades and bikes, and they all acted like jolly buffoons, while the bearded Saint Nicholas (the Dutch Santa Claus) rode slowly by on his stately white horse.
My father is Dutch, and from my childhood I vaguely remembered him telling me about 'Zwarte Pete,' (Black Pete) the helper of Saint Nicholas. When my sister and I were young we would celebrate Saint Nicholas on December 5 by putting a wooden shoe by the chimney, along with cookies for Saint Nick and carrots for his horse. In the morning we would find a big chocolate letter shaped like the first letter of our name stuffed in the wooden shoe. But Black Pete was never really much of a character in our informal celebration of the holiday, which was really just an appetizer for the 'real' Christmas. I'd largely forgotten about Black Pete many years ago.
Saint Nicholas Day is celebrated in Holland on December 6 in lieu of Christmas (which is a quiet, commodity free event), and Black Pete is an integral symbol of the holiday. As Holland attracts more immigrants, Black Pete has become an increasingly controversial figure, although he is still largely embraced. Still, I only saw one family of black people attending the parade; the kids were having a blast, though the mother and father looked very disconcerted. In 2006 an effort was made for the Black Pete's to be covered in many different colors of face paint, but the effort was widely rejected.
Blackface has a loaded history in the United States, originating in the hugely popular minstrel shows of the early 19th century that parodied African Americans to adoring crowds for over a hundred years.
Now, it would be completely unacceptable to see blackface in any kind of mainstream use. Yet Holland, which prides itself on its tolerant and progressive politics and people, condones it despite its loaded history. I'm curious, what do you Magnum blog readers think of this tradition? It would be especially interesting to hear from those readers living in Holland.
Traveling by road is simultaneously one of the great frustrations and pleasures of working in Uganda. The only real way to get around is by bus. The journey starts early in the morning at the bus station, which is often a muddy, confusing collection of loiterers, vendors, opportunists, thieves, the unemployed, and a few bus company employees shouting destinations. The buses never leave before they are full, and usually they're overflowing by the time they teeter out of the station. Still, no matter what time I arrived, there always seemed to be a two-hour wait until the bus left. The best way to pass the time was to chat with the other passengers, who were usually curious and amused that a white man was traveling with them. Inevitably, the first question would be about whom I was voting for in the upcoming election. When I expressed my enthusiasm for Obama, the friendship could really begin. From there we would gossip freely about our job, family, relationships, politics and anything else to pass the time. Ugandans are generally very warm and open people, and there was always a lot of teasing and laughter. When the bus finally filled, the engine was coaxed to a start and it began a complicated dance to leave the bus park, weaving between haphazardly parked buses, hundreds of jostling people moving in different directions and shouting vendors eager to make a last sale.
Life in Uganda happens very close to the road, which is often the only consistent stream of income for the small, forgotten towns that line the routes between the major cities. The buses stop frequently on the roadside, and instantly a mass of people sprint towards them with their goods, pressing them up to the windows and shouting prices. One time I traveled with a Ugandan friend named Salle, who insisted on buying something at every stop. First he bought a stick of grilled chicken livers. At the next stop Salle grabbed a jerry can of fresh milk, clucking happily at the bargain price. The next stop specialized in live chickens held up to the window by their bound claws. After a brief negotiation, Salle decided on a fat, frightened specimen, which he stuffed under his seat and for the next five hours flapped its wings and pecked at our ankles. Salle became very eager to eat that chicken by the end of the bus ride.
Sometimes bus trips could be extremely frustrating. The roads are full of potholes, forcing the bus driver to swerve constantly to avoid them. But there are too many to avoid all of them, and when hit at speed the old buses give a mighty jump. I've hit my head untold times on the roofs of the smaller buses, to the amusement of most of the passengers who instinctively know when to duck.
On my last day in Uganda I was making my way back to Kampala to catch my flight home. I was coming from Karamoja, a remote region in the northeast corner of the country. There was only one bus a day leaving for the capital, and the journey was supposed to take ten hours. Four hours into the ride, we hit a massive pothole. Large chunks of the suspension flew off and the bus swerved to a halt. After a bit of surprised murmuring we debarked and sat under a tree. The driver pretended to fix the wheel by banging on it with a wrench, and the conductor carrying the fare money hopped on the one motorcycle in the village, never to be seen again. For two hours we waited on the remote roadside for any sort of vehicle, which finally came in the form of an empty truck heading to the next town to pick up produce. After a scramble we all managed to fit in the truck bed. From there we transferred to a minibus, which drove around town for another hour looking for more passengers. Eight hours into the trip, I finally arrived at the regional hub and found a bus going to Kampala, still seven hours away. Thankfully, that trip passed relatively uneventfully, and I arrived back at my friends place with just enough time to pack my bags, take a shower and head onward to the airport.
I present a selection of photographs taken on the road. On each bus ride I photographed constantly. I was becoming frustrated by the way mannerisms change when people know they are being photographed, and enjoyed the purity of relying on my gut, and having just one chance to catch slivers of daily life passing by.
For many years I have been photographing some of the great tourist locations of the world, from the Pyramids through to the Taj Mahal. The bigger the honey pot the happier I am, as the expectation - as opposed to the reality - is always a good starting point for my photographic explorations. One place has always eluded me, but finally I managed to get to Machu Picchu, situated high in the Andes in Peru.
Whenever we contemplate that iconic image of this remarkably situated lost city, one thing is certain: there are no people around. I wanted to see what was actually happening at Machu Pichu, knowing how popular it had become.
Is it really as deserted as the images suggest?
Machu Picchu is not easy to get to, unlike most iconic sites in the world where a short ride from the airport will land you at the entrance gate. First you have to fly from Lima to Cuzco, and then take a four hour train journey to Aguas Calientes. There is no choice about this as it is impossible to make your way by car. Then you have to get on the local service bus and zig-zag your way up the steep mountainside to the entrance.
When you arrive at an airport early in the morning, you are never first there and you wonder where everyone comes from. The same applies with Machu Picchu. I was there at 7.30am, thinking I would familiarise myself with the site, before the rush. Already the place was packed.
However there was a problem, the view that I had travelled half way round the world to see was shrouded in mist. I suddenly thought that this might linger for the next two days and I started to panic, thinking I may not see the site at all.
I was not alone in this fear, as this is where the famous Inca Trail finishes. Those arriving in after a gruelling four day hike were devastated not to be able to see and photograph the view. However, within an hour the mist thinned and glimpses of the most famous prospect in South America started to emerge. Indeed this slow revelation was more dramatic and impressive than the unremittingly sunny scene the day after.
Between the hours of 10am and 2pm the site is at its busiest, with up to 4000 visitors arriving every day. Knowing how inaccessible this place is, it is staggering where and how they emerge. It is also not a cheap visit as each foreign tourist has to pay 122 soles (roughly $41) to enter the site. I am convinced that this entrance payment, together with the cost of the journey and the trekking are probably keeping the Peruvian economy afloat, as 70 % of all visitors are foreigners.
Aguas Calienties, the town at the base of the steep climb to Macchu Picchu has one purpose, and that is to supply board, lodging and food for the visitors to the site. All tastes and budgets are catered for, from expensive and luxurious hotels through to the numerous hostels for backpackers, as the appeal of Macchu Picchu is universal. Twenty years ago there was hardly anything there, but now the town is really buzzing, as in the last decade alone, visitor numbers have trebled. There are no cars as the town is only accessible via the train. I photographed renditions of the view of Macchu Pichu as many restaurants, massage parlours, souvenir shops or whatever, use this as decoration.
What is it that drives so many people to visit, sometimes with great difficulty, this remarkable place? It has an appeal that must go beyond the attraction of the usual honey pot. It is a glimpse of a lost world, hidden from man until discovered by Hiram Bingham in 1911. It is one of the most beautiful sights on earth and is potentially about to become a victim of its own success as visitors swarm over the walls and terraces. Get there soon, as there are rumours that they will have to build a replica before the real Macchu Picchu is trampled to death.
I had just finished reading the novel Norwegian Wood by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. The love story of the youngster Toru Watanabe who looks back on his days as a student at Waseda University in Tokyo and his relationships with two very different women - the beautiful yet emotionally troubled Naoko, and the outgoing, lively Midori. I felt so attracted to the environment the book was depicting and the emotions Toru was going through that one morning, I decided to visit the university myself, to see if there were any other Toru Watanabes around.
At this time I was living together with my girl friend at her grand parents old sushi-store. No one had been living there for years, but you could still faintly read the kanji characters on the front of the house....福寿司....Happy sushi. Happy sushi was situated just beside the train tracks. When the express trained passed (every 7th minute) all the shoji-doors started shaking and the cups started jingling. Anyway, I felt pretty isolated there because Sara worked from early morning to late evening, and so on this day, I decided to go to Waseda.
I came just around lunchtime when all the students were gathered in the cafeteria. Strong beams of sunlight hit the rows of students as they were enjoying their break. I spend some time wandering around, but didn't really feel like taking pictures. As I went out into the backyard, I felt that someone was looking at me, and I was just about to turn around, as a cautious voice spoke to me. "Who are you?" And there he was, leaning against and old tree and smoking his cigarillo. Not Toru but Yuta.
Yuta studied philosophy, and when he found out I was Danish, he was excited to discuss Danish philosopher Kierkegaard and his thoughts on love. Yuta and I spend the afternoon walking the streets, and we ended up in his room on the first floor of his grandparent's house. "My grand father hates me, but my grandmother loves me" Yuta said, and started cleaning away the empty bottles of vodka. "It is the only way I can fall a sleep", he said. Yuta was crazy about the Beatles, and as he unbuttoned his shirt and got ready to play his guitar, I started photographing him for the first time. For the next year Yuta worked with me as my assistant, and so we became friends.
Last September, Republicans from around the US marched into my backyard - St. Paul, Minnesota. I managed to get access to the Republican Convention with press credentials loaned from someone I met at a demonstration (don't ask). Within five minutes of working my way through the various security measures, I found myself walking down the same hallway as Karl Rove. In a flash I saw my future before me. With one stoke of my carbon-fiber tripod, I could take this menace out. My photography career might be over, but I'd at least I'd make my mark on history.
Needless to say, I chickened out. So now I'm back to looking for more modest marks to make. After a lot of soul searching, my new goal is to breath some life into this blog.
Don't get me wrong; Martin Fuchs has done an excellent job as blog administrator. He sends out emails to the photographers and pesters us for content. And there has been plenty of fantastic content. But something is missing. I see the body, but I don't hear the voice.
In analyzing Magnum's blog, I noticed the post that generated the greatest reader response was one of the Photos of the Week by Christopher Anderson (read the post here). As is often the case, one reader offered some pointed criticism. But what made the post come to life was that Chris took the time to respond. I probably learned more from that dialogue than from a dozen essays on photojournalism.
What makes blogs work isn't fancy prose. It is all about content and conversation. So in trying to whip this blog to life, these are my goals:
1) More content. In 2007 we averaged 6.5 posts per month. In 2008 we are averaging 3.5. I want to pump more stuff through the system.
2) More conversation. Most photographers are busy shooting and traveling. They also tend to be a bit blog-shy. But I'm going to do my best to get them in here. I might be too scared to jump Karl Rove, but I'm willing to do my best with Martin Parr.
So let me start the conversation by asking what you want. If you ran this blog, how would you make it better?
I am in a taxi, stuck in a big traffic jam. I am on my way to Auto China, 2008, and we are edging our way along ring road 3, about to join the airport expressway going to the newly opened China International Exhibition Centre, where this event is held. There are six ring roads in Beijing, and except for ring road 1, which is a track round the Forbidden City, they are all four lane motorways.
Most of the time you are as likely to be stationary, rather than moving.
When you consider that private ownership of cars was only sanctioned in 1980, Beijing has now joined that super league of gridlocked cities such as Dubai, Sao Paulo and Bangkok, in record time. Beijing could soon become the city with more cars than any other on the planet. This year alone the auto industry expects to sell nine million cars in China, so you can start to understand why this event is taken very seriously indeed, by sellers and buyers in equal measure.
While car sales in the West are currently suppressed there is only one word for the Chinese car market, growth. This is currently running at around 25%. When you consider that 90% of families in the West own a car and in China it is a mere 6%, you will understand why the motor industry thinks that China will rescue it from a down turn.
The Chinese do not just love cars, they worship them. In the section where luxury brands display their latest models, the stands are mobbed. In this section you are not allowed to come up to the cars unless you look like a potential customer. But everyone gawps and takes photos, happy to have seen a real Rolls Royce or a Porsche.
Almost everything we buy in the West is now made in China, with the big exception of cars. But the Chinese are trying to catch up. There were over twenty Chinese car manufacturers at the show, Chery being the top of the league. This firm exports more cars than any other Chinese company. However, their main export markets are the ex Russian countries of Eastern Europe, and South America. They do not sell in Europe or the USA, probably because they would not meet the safety regulations.
Chery also make the cheapest car in China, the QQ. Sadly this was not on display because, as I was told " everyone knows it." This sells for roughly $4,000.
Taking photographs of the cars is the way in which the Chinese define their visit to the show. This process is all helped along by a lavish sprinkling of car girls. Such is the importance of the girls' contribution, there are competitions for the best girl in each show hall. Car brochures abound, and are picked up enthusiastically. Sometimes a queue will form for these, which will make the queue escalate; no-one wants to be outdone.
As a British citizen I took particular delight in encountering the Roewe stand. Roewe is the name given to the newly-launched Rover group that was bought by the Chinese a few years back. They took the brand, brought all the equipment over from Longbridge and have re-jigged the car for the Chinese market. The marketing is re-assuringly British. Britain now has no major car manufacturer at all. Such is the dynamic of the new world order, which like so much of life is defined by our love of cars.
I am sitting in a café having a good plate of pasta. Nothing remarkable about this, but this is Moscow, and I still carry memories of struggling to find anything half decent to eat when I first visited this city in the early 90s. Now there are good eating places everywhere, as this is a city flush with cash. The Gucci store in downtown Moscow generates more income per sq metre than any other Gucci outlet in the world.
I came to Moscow in 1992 and photographed in the first McDonalds that opened here. There were long queues to experience this icon of the America. I still remember, with almost disbelief, the excitement and thrill of the diners. Now of course, there are Yellow arches everywhere here, and not a queue in sight.
Funnily enough, it is the only time I have been granted permission to photograph in a McDonalds. I have asked since, and always had permission declined.
This does not prevent me going in and shooting, especially in the likes of China, where being thrown out by a faintly embarrassed duty manager gives a certain thrill. And remember like speed dating, there is always another target just down the road.
Back to Moscow, where I am photographing the 2nd Millionaire's Fair. Talk about bling, the Muscovites have no hesitation in showing off their wealth. One can buy a helicopter, mobile phones encrusted with diamonds or an apartment in Dubai.
One suspects the really wealthy do not want to be seen here, but those that do show up on the opening night are exactly what you think the wealthy should look like. The women wear the latest label, the younger women all have glowing long hair, many keep their furs on, despite the heat. Champagne is everywhere, and never seems to run out, there are people rolling cigars and handing these out, canapés come at you at every angle.
Traditionally poverty has been the front line for the concerned photographer, I am happy to reverse this, and for many years have photographed the wealth of the West. These images will all accumulate towards a suite of photographs entitled "Luxury" I am convinced that the non stop growth and the wealth we create has many problems associated with this.
The Millionaire's Fair is in Krokus Park, an exhibition Centre about 20 KM from the centre of Moscow. Getting there can take up to 2 hours, when I return late at night, it takes 25 min, such is the congestion on Moscow's roads.
The next stop on this wealth tour is the Chinese Motor show in Beijing next April. I must get a hotel where I can walk there, rather than being stuck in traffic.
"We, the undersigned, believe that the new rules currently under consideration for Film Permits (Chapter 9, Title 43 of the City Rules of New York) will have an irrevocable impact on independent filmmakers and photographers and their ability to engage in creative work in New York."
Over the years I often get to airports very early so I can take pictures, and with time to kill recently at Tesla Airport, Belgrade I took a walk to the somewhat decaying, but highly atmospheric Soviet-era Aircraft Museum next door. I was interested to see how it dealt with the Balkan War and was not disappointed. There were exhibitions of parts of shot-down aircraft, from WW2 but also from more recent history; an F16 tailplane, a canopy and a pilot’s personal effects on the ejector seat of a B117.
I visited Belgrade, Serbia, for a small exhibition of my landscapes and a workshop with Serbian photojournalists. I always like to find out first who is in the audience and asked who still shoots with film, out of about sixty people only one hand went up! Not surprising in a city with no E6 lab only one place to process C41.
During the workshop we had very limited time so I proposed a very simple project on ‘Hands’. I used Canon 5D and went with the group, to the park and market place near the gallery, and for an hour we all had great fun in the sun finding hands to photograph.
I was first in Serbia on a family holiday with my twin brother Chris, and my father, I remember it well, it was the first time I had got drunk, with a cheap bottle of the local wine, and a shop that did not mind selling it to two ten year olds.
Muhamad Kapaalaga, 48, installs a newly received bed net for his daughter Hawa Barbirye, 4, on April 21, 2007 in Uganda. On the right is his son Isa Kalange, 9. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
Bed net distribution event in Uganda. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
Before bed nets are distributed, demonstrations are performed to show recipients how to hang them. Everyone who comes learns what malaria is and the importance of using bed nets to prevent mosquito bites—an integral part of the distribution strategy. Health workers read from a list of pre-registered families. 13,600 bed nets were handed out today in 12 different locations. This distribution is part of a nationwide strategy to provide bed nets to pregnant mothers and families with children under the age of 5. By the end of May 580,000 bed nets in total will be handed out throughout the country.
Roughly 500,000 bed nets sit in a storage facility in Kampala, Uganda’s capital, ready for distribution through various partners including Malaria No More and the President’s Malaria Initiative. It is part of a nationwide effort to effectively cover half of Uganda’s most vulnerable people, women and children.
A mother and child wait outside the children’s ward at the Kabale Regional Hospital. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
Kabale, Uganda: I always have a bit of dread before I enter a children's ward of a hospital. I've been to several through the years in a number of developing countries and today, being in the largest hospital of southern Uganda, serving 1.5 million people, was no different. Thirty metal and thinly mattressed beds, all occupied with children, none older than 5, filled the Kabale Regional Hospital and not surprisingly 30 to 40 percent of the cases were due to malaria.
Last week, Annette Kyarikunda's daughter Asimwe had a high fever, was losing consciousness and falling down frequently.
As the national industry producing anti-malaria medicine matures, farmers are meeting the demand by growing artemesia which pays more than tilling Uganda's dark soil for food crops. From Chien-Chi Chang's trip in Uganda, exploring the many facets of malaria with writer Kyu-Young Lee, here are three examples of older entrepreneurs who have changed their businesses in response to the country's needs.
At 82, Theodore Riutonda, is taking on a new job of growing artemesia which he believes will be lucrative. Artemesia is processed into a drug that can treat malaria and save thousands of lives each day in Africa. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
Flora Twikirize, who is 4 months pregnant, is being successfully treated for Malaria at the Kabale Regional Hospital in Kabale, Uganda on April 17, 2007. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
Flora Twikirize, who is 4 months pregnant, was brought to the Kabale Regional Hospital by a neighbor after collapsing and losing consciousness in her own home. A week ago, when she fell ill with fever and headaches, her husband brought her to a local private clinic where she was tested and diagnosed with having malaria. She paid about $8 and was given chloroquine which in the past several years has proved to be ineffective against malaria in Africa. Though the malaria parasite has grown resistant, many private clinics still prescribe the drug because their inventories are full of it.
Kyampure Bates takes a short break from tilling to feed her 3 month old daughter Alnebyona Fortunate. Her son Ahsimbisbwe Naboth, 3 years old, sleeps in front of her. Chien-Chi Chang/Magnum on Malaria
It’s 9:30 am when Chien-Chi and I hit the main road on our way to the fields where people are planting shrubs that when processed into a drug, is a proven life-saver. The plant is called artemisia and Africans are now producing it for themselves. It is the essential part of ACTs,or artemisinin combination therapy, the first line of defense against malaria which claims more than 3,000 children’s lives every day in sub-Saharan Africa.
We’re in Kabale which lies in the south western tip of Uganda. At this time in the morning a mist envelops the city like a halo, as if enshrining a holy land. Winding between giant green hills, I look over and see farmers buzzing with activity. Here are a few photos from the field, and the factory where they process the plant.
I have just returned from Dubai where I was photographing the first Dubai DIFC Art Fair. We all know that Dubai is the fastest growing city in the world and this fair was part of an ongoing strategy to try and position Dubai as a cultural destination, to compliment their known love of tourism and business.
Dubai. 2007. Martin Parr/Magnum Photos
This city has a lot of cash swashing around, and when you have bought all the cars, houses, plastic surgery and clothes you need the only thing left to buy is Art. And this is what appeared to be happening at the VIP launch of this fair last Thursday evening. What for me was interesting, is that the normal art fair crowd was entirely different. There were the normal Western Europeans and Americans, but also of course, the Arabs, the wealthy Indians, and the Asians too. This heady mix was wonderful to photograph, it was really a truly international event. The way people dressed and their demeanour was very Bling, not a word I have encountered much, but you know it when you see it.
I was asked by Magnum’s Tokyo office to attend the opening of a newly curated Magnum Group exhibition at the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography. Tokyo, as aficionados know, offers many things to the passing visitor: disarming politeness, a profusion of electronic noises and gadgets, a city district dedicated to people’s obsessions, and rice wine.
Tokyo, Japan. 1997. Restaurant. Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos. Part of the exhibition “Tokyo Seen by Magnum Photographers" at the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography.
Alienated by jet lag and language difficulties such offerings are a welcome sign of having arrived somewhere with a distinct local culture but at the same at a truly global city.
In an ongoing email conversation with British Magnum photographer Simon Wheatley about photographing youth in different countries, Wheatley also touched upon the fear that the U.K. may be introducing measures that will restrict street photography. He answered a few questions from Malaysia where he is currently working.
Blois, France. 2005. The monotony of another boring afternoon for two youths who have been excluded from school. Simon Wheatley/Magnum Photos
What would be the implications of such legislation for you?
I’m not sure exactly what is being proposed, but if France is anything to go by then it’s very worrying. When you take someone’s eyes away or blur a facial expression you can remove the meaning of the picture. There was a debate on lightstalkers after my story from the banlieue of Blois was placed on the Magnum website. Someone said he mourned the death of photojournalism in France, and I share that sentiment if this is really the way things must go. But France has become very interesting and I do retain hope that the work in Blois might be the beginning of my efforts there. Another comment on lightstalkers said that it would have been more respectful of me to obtain people’s permission before publication, but most of the youths in my pictures from Blois are extremely alienated, and would probably have ripped up any piece of paper I’d ask them to sign. A 14 year old boy of Algerian origin did exactly that with a contact sheet in which he spotted his younger sister, who’d actually asked me to take her picture! I would not expect such a heated reaction in London but I don’t think many of the youth I’ve photographed there would be exactly queuing up to sign releases.
I am now back home in the UK, after completing my tour of South America, where I have been shooting the beaches for a project that documents the four biggest beach resorts.
My final destination was Argentina where I went to Mar del Plata, which is by far its biggest resort. What a remarkable place. We all know those scenes of post-war Coney Island, with crammed beaches. Well this is just like that, but still going strong 50 years later. The place is packed.
Martin Parr has visited Argentina before. This image is from a trip to Buenos Aires in 1998.
Unlike the Chileans, the beach is crowded by mid-morning, where virtually everything under the planet is brought around and sold. There are wagons loaded with swim wear, various Argentine snacks and of course the usual trays of cheap jewellery sold by black Africans. These guys are the only people who give you grief when you pick up a camera within their vicinity. Otherwise it is wonderful to photograph in Argentina, people are friendly and not at all suspicious of photographers as the public has become in the West.
I am currently staying in the Cap Ducal Hotel in Vina del Mar in Chile. This is probably the most memorable hotel I have ever stayed in. As their literature says, "We are not so much by the sea, but ON the sea." Built in 1936, it is an Art Deco-style, concrete-based liner with spectacular views from all the rooms and the restaurant that stretches over three floors. In the morning you can watch the resident seal while you sip your cafe con leche. The hotel is delightfully run down and, as you can imagine, has a loyal and interesting clientèle.
I am here because I am doing a tour of South American beach resorts in the height of summer. Two days earlier, I met a group of Chilean photographers organised by a photographer called Luis Weinstein. He circumnavigates the tricky problem of earning a living in Chile as a photographer by being a TV weather man. He works three hours a day, half the week, and is home to watch himself do the weather after the main TV news. At this most pleasant encounter, I learnt that the main gripe from the photographers is that there is no market for photography, little interest in buying prints, and the magazines are terrible.
On my way to Indonesia for a month-long assignment in Jakarta, I look out the window of Northwest Airlines flight 07 and take in a sight I used to enjoy. The graceful sweeping wing, the engine humming underneath, and beyond them the gentle gradients of color where the Pacific Ocean meets the atmosphere. But I sit less easily on jet planes now than I used to. It's not that I suddenly harbor fears of terrorist bombs or mechanical errors. Rather, I am assaulted by the reality of some simple, but brutal, numbers:
Right now, by occupying this one coach class seat, I am personally accountable for the release of about eight metric tons of Carbon Dioxide (CO2) into the atmosphere. That is roughly the same amount as the total CO2 emissions if I drove a Hummer H2 SUV every day for an entire year, based on the American suburban annual average of 19,300km.
Dec. 11, 2006. Midway across the Pacific Ocean, 35,000 feet.
Goodbye, and so long, Moral High Ground.
I, like so many of us in photojournalism, do a lot of flying. Earlier this year, I worked in seven countries on three continents within a five-week period. I enjoy Elite Frequent Flyer status on all the major carriers. Truth be told, if I quit traveling like I do, I could probably maintain a fleet of ten sports utility vehicles, leave all the appliances in my apartment on 24/365, and still come out carbon-cleaner than I do right now.
