Tuesday, March 13, 2012

On Tourist Photography: Trapped in a Photographic Reality


          People are inherently egotistical. Scared of an end that most have declared “nonexistent,” we try to document our existence and make it eternal. Diaries, letters or photographs are nothing but sparks ignited by the ultimate fear that our experience will someday be covered by the dust of oblivion. These testaments of existence and experience scream “I exist and there is proof!” In addition, our egotism spreads its wings in the magical middle kingdom between reality and imagination. Photographs, for instance, are given more credit than they deserve for documenting the naked truth. Although we have been conditioned to automatically assume that a photograph is an adequate representation of reality, on the contrary, it is a representation of the photographer’s reality, his world, his perception. It is quite paradoxical, therefore, to trust some prints to tell a story about experience. When an individual picks up a camera, he places a shield between him and the reality that is waiting for his touch. That never happens, however. This sad sight of people excusing themselves from reality is being increasingly seen as the tourist industry claws through any geographical altitude and longitude. Photographs, therefore, are tools used to experience inexperience and they are not reality, but mere photographic reality. 
 
    Tourists travel from one part of the globe to the other and invade new frontiers. It is an invasion because everywhere they go, they do not adapt to the place they are visiting, but rather expect the place to adapt to them. Apart from manipulating what they have seen, today we see these barbarians of modern times marching around these places of interest with the incomparable destructive tool: a camera. Tourists, therefore, instead of immersing themselves in the local culture and interacting with the natives, turn into puppets and selectivity becomes their puppet master.  In her book On Photography, Susan Sontag writes how photography, in essence, is the act of non-intervention. The one who photographs does not take any action and the one who takes action metamorphoses into a subject matter for a print. It is incongruous, describes Sontag, how a photograph can be a way of limiting or shutting out experience, but also the tool of certifying experience, “…by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, a souvenir.” The main problem tourists have with photography when they are visiting a place is that they let the camera dictate and confine their experiences to a crumble of exoticism which does not even encapsulate the essence of the visited place.  



Nevertheless, photography remains the medium used en masse to tweak the reality of the visited places. Most of the time, this is done unintentionally. Reality can be tweaked through f/stops, composition, lighting, lenses, shutter speed, processing, et cetera. Gross and Shapiro have argued that “we interpret physical images in a way that fit’s a reestablished view of reality” and “the reconstructive process is influenced not only by our individual biases but also by the context in which the photograph is seen.” Thus, photographs let us lie to ourselves about reality and perception and they are a construction rather than a representation of a visited place. Reality can be reconstructed by changing the lenses, adopting a new eye level, changing the perspective of the photograph and then voila`, a new world has been created. This world is full of beautiful and ugly things, but with a camera, a photographer or an amateur photographer, can turn a duckling into a swan, and if the magic does not happen, he or she will just delete the picture. 
    Therefore, photography is not reality but alternately, an escape from reality. 
The modern barbarians hide themselves behind the armor of photography and do not allow themselves to have an authentic experience of the place they are visiting. They show little particles of microscopic truth on how life is like in the countries that tourists will be visiting. Through them, countries are transformed, the original is turned into a photocopy, and nature is tamed. Photographs are powerful enough to create false notions on places not visited before and also powerful enough to paralyze the puppet that stands behind the camera.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Rain and Nostalgia - Is this how living in Seattle would feel?

 I had a dream a couple of days ago. Saw myself by the Adriatic in the early morning listening to the sighs of the waves and taking in the fresh smell of the sea. Damn, I need a vacation...in Albania.

So, I found refuge in several blogs of Peace Corps Volunteers in Albania today. Drowned by feelings of nostalgia that were impulsively awakened by this foggy, rainy day, and since I could not finish that fifteen page paper (I can't wait for the days of grad school when fifteen pages would seem little!) on anarchist thought, I went on an a marathon of reading blogs. Almost all would mention furgon rides and byrek. And the fact that Albanian host families encourage them to eat a lot. Hilarious! Although I live in a microcosm of that beyond the Atlantic, the hyper-materialism of American culture makes me miss it more and more each day. Instead of helping, those blogs made me feel even more nostalgic! When will the day of visiting and "recharging my batteries" come?

Afternoon, my Adriatic!

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Deux Guitares dhe Mall

 Ismail Kadare - Mall
Ca pika shiu ranë mbi qelq.
Dhe une per ty sec ndjeva mall.
Jetojmë të dy në një qytet, 
Dhe rrallë shihemi sa rrallë. 

Edhe m'u duk pak e çuditshme
Si erdh kjo vjeshtë, ky mëngjes.
Qiejt e ngrysur pa lejlekë
Dhe shirat pa ylber në mes.

Dhe thënia e vjetër e Heraklitit
Seç m'u kujtua sot për dreq:
"Të zgjuarit janë bashkë në botë,
Kurse të fjeturit janë veç".

Në ç'ënderr kemi rënë kaq keq,
Që dot s'po zgjohemi vallë?...
Ca pika shiu ranë mbi qelq
Dhe unë për ty seç ndjeva mall


Tuesday, December 14, 2010

i am glad i still see beauty in people

I them vetes qe nuk ka me bukuri ne jete tashme, u rrita. Turma zhgenjimesh vertetuan teoremen e jo-deshiruar: nuk duhet me naivitet e pafajsi.

Nuk eshte kohe e pershtatshme per perralla me mbret.
"Leri endrrat rehat, si hiri i te kaluares qe jane. Magji idealesh s'ka...
Dikur, e verteta ishte nje konstante e ngurte, e thjeshte, e pafalshme. Tani ajo eshte e perkohshme dhe nje iluzion.
Shprese? Perzemersi? Besnikeri? E ke mendokan te genjejne dhe njehere keta?
Mahnitjet foshnjore me bukurine e shpirtit te njerezve ishin thjeshte pasqyra qe reflektonin deshirat e tua per nje bote me te bukur."
***
Ne kafene, nje te qeshur zhurmuese e te parregullt degjoj. Si ish-idealiste e kthyer ne cinike, ngrej koken te shoh me vetullat e ngrysura, se leximi i problemeve te botes kaq paturpshem u nderpre. Me syte gri te turbulluar - ka shume kohe qe shiu i pafalshem dhe mjegulla kane zene strehi ne iriset blu - hetoj te pranishmit per te identifikuar te qeshuren e padashur.
Nje cast i vetem, nje person i huaj qe nuk ishte i vetedijshem se sa impakt kishte parregullsia e qeshjes se tij, riktheu blune ne syte e mi, qe me kishte munguar per kaq shume kohe. Me duart e cara nga ftohtesia e stines, po perpiqej te falenderonte dike ne menyren me njerezore qe kisha pare ndonjehere: me ndjenje, jo me fjale. Qeshte ne menyre imperfekte edhe pse nuk mund te degjonte asnje tingull, asnje muzike, asnje fjale, as qeshjet dhe psheretimat e vetvetes edhe pse ishin me te ciltrat qe kisha degjuar ndonjehere. Ai milisekond njerezimi i paster e deboi grine nga syte e mi. Mu kujtua qe jo cdo gje e bukur eshte nje iluzion, sepse ne ate moment isha deshmitare e dickaje vogelsisht te mahnitshme.

Po, e qeshura e nje te shurdheri me kujtoi te rinjihem me bukurine e shpirtit te njerezve.


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

antagonizma inerte

what do you want to see

i can be what those with a caged
tolerance want to see:
immigrant.
muslim? who knows, maybe!
infidel?Yes.
speaking strange-sounding words with the family
in the supermarkets of democratic
capitalism.
performing primitive tribal dances in parking lots, coffee shops, schools, cafeterias, libraries
you name it.
culturally uncompromising;
unassimilated.
living a vigilante microcosm of the
Orderly Society.
[or]
living a respectable microcosm of the
Cultured Society.
integrated.
performing culturally fascinating dances
preserving a language that resisted Gallic, Roman, Ottoman, German
(you name it) conquests.
openly neutral.privately atheistic.
immigrant.
i can be what those with an open heart want to see.


Sunday, April 25, 2010

Etje per Drite Hene

    

                                                      Kusht  i domosdoshem per egzistencen time eshte shpirti i idealistes qe ushqehet nga drita e henes, dhe nga njerezit qe jane...ndryshe. Me kishte munguar jashte mase nje njeri ndryshe, nje nga ikonat e individualitetit te femijerise sime, dhe u cmalla me te ne memedhe. Gati asgje s'kishte ndryshuar, pervec kitares se braktisur te tij qe sot kishte tre tela te keputur. Ulur tek shkallet e shtepise, duke ndjekur femijet e tij qe loznin syllambyllurazi nen driten e nates shqiptare, une shihja yjet, njeri tymoste cigaren e fundit te dites dhe ai, idealisti i dikurshem, clodhej kokulur. Mendoja qe asgje s'kishte ndryshuar, por ne te folur e siper mesova qe kisha menduar gabim, mesova qe ai keto vite i ishte fshehur drites se henes dhe sot nuk kishte me idealizem ne shpirtin e tij. 
"Vjen nje dite qe nuk do te kesh kohe per te ushqyer shpirtin ashtu si do ti"- me tha, dhe per momentin u mallengjeva duke menduar telat e keputur te kitares qe shprehnin deshirat e lodhura dhe shpresat e keputura te viteve te humbur e te djegur. Per te mos u dukur ngrita koken lart, ne qiell, duke pare yjet dhe henen.
 
Psheretiva.
 
Dhe e mora veten...sepse e dija qe me ka ngelur akoma goxha kohe deri sa shkendija e idealizmit te shuhet; ka akoma drite hene per mua. Dhe, kushedi, mbase drita e henes nuk do te reshte se me ndjekuri (shpresoj!).





Saturday, November 17, 2007

written ages ago


It has been a week since last week, and I seem to have lost the inspiration I got from traveling too much (maybe!). Listening to Life and Love songs, and looking out the window of Mr. Warden's bus was all I needed to dive into my contemplative mood. It is Fall that ignites all my childlike, mediocre-phobic thoughts; and it seemed that she was everywhere in Gettysburg. Looking at my friend's picture last night reminded me of the thoughts I had while I was walking down the place where brothers fought each other in the name of principles. And I remembered, that when I looked at the thousands graves of the unknown soldiers, I came to the conclusion that our society is way too much selfish. It's no surprise of course, because we are proud of it, it's everywhere, it's manifest. "All Shame Left Behind" would be a perfect motto for this prostitute world. Of course, we preach goodness, compassion, understanding, and all the other nice things that have been preached for generations and generations, but they have lost their essence during the journey. And even though we have made tremendous developments in some aspects, they are still not enough, in my eyes, to justify the attitude we have adopted toward the good, the bad and the ugly. No one cares anymore, and the definition of carpe diem metamorphosed, sucking the life out of life itself. I fear for where we are going, especially after reading Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World". It seems like the prophecy is getting closer to reality day after day, and that is frightening. Living in denial, getting high everyday on drugs, or alcohol, or consumerism, or the thirst for money and losing souls in the process define this coward world. The problems are still there, though. No matter how hard we close our eyes and wish that responsibility will not be needed after the opening, the need will still be there, waiting for us to wake up. And some of us fortunately wake up, but unfortunate events are often what prompt these awakenings. Let's just hope that life will slap us as soon as possible, because it would be a shame to miss some opportunities that will not come around twice. And I keep on philosophizing through thin air, holding desperately on the blueness of the sky, and wasting my time, because I am human...and also a product of post-modern times. No matter how hard I hope or try, I still remain a hypocrite because it floats in my genes like in the genes of the rest. It is inherent. It is destiny.