Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every 'superstar,' every 'supreme leader,' every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there - on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam (Carl Sagan)
Sitting still as stone watching - watching
People walking by you wondering why
No one ever stops to talk or thinks about it - if they ever did
People in every direction
No words exchanged
No time to exchange
And all the little ants are marching
Red and black antennas waving
They all do it the same
We all do it the same way
People-watching is quite fascinating. At times I weave stories about the people. Yesterday, in London, and then at the airport, there were just too many people to weave about, so I just watched. I photographed somewhat interesting people; well, that was my intention – but there were very few that fitted this category of “interesting”.
I noticed an interesting man in a suit, with dreadlocks (in his hair), but he seemed to be begging, so I did not photograph him. We came across him again later; he laid eyes on me and instead of asking me to put some money in his cup, he attempted to take my hand saying “Oh! I like you!” I avoided his hand and politely said, “Thank you,” as I continued walking. “No,” he insisted I really like you!” I did not dare engage with him anymore. So I walked away from a human encounter.
Another interesting character was a man I perceived to be American Indian. I might perhaps begin to weave a story about him.
Sitting next to a little boy at the airport, waiting, waiting… He remarks to his granny that there are so many, TOO many people. I agreed with him: so many people, each with their own little lives, their own contexts, their own histories – all intermingling. If I could freeze frame that moment, they would be captured for a spilt second of time together. A multi-coloured, multi-media pastiche all layered over another.
Little fragments of conversations, little frieze frame images captured in my mind. So many people. TOO many people.