Looking For Gold | The Photo DRILL

Post edited 2:52 pm – November 21, 2010 by zainab

Turquoise and Embroidered

            She learned the big word earlier than the other children. Embroidery. She couldn’t say it at first but knew it meant the beautiful stitching on clothes and scarves: the minute details that seemed impossible to have been born from human finger tips.

Even though her fingers were always so slim and her hands so tiny she couldn’t imagine the effort.

Anything embroidered was always more beautiful, more precious to their eyes. She appreciated what they saw but sometimes, it seemed too much of an act.  Being a plain white blouse was all the much easier. All the same, it helped to be pretty sometimes.

She still couldn’t say it. Emb – and cut. That's where she stopped. She muffled the rest of the sentence as she got older so they wouldn’t hear what she couldn’t articulate. They knew what she meant – almost all the time.

The times they didn’t, she didn’t blame them. She couldn't. She kept those to herself. Filling her growing buds with them and her already wide hips – wider than those of the rest of the girls in school but still not wide enough to be called the f word. Just the O one: she passed the limit of weight which she didn’t know who placed at the first place. Over the limit.

And she couldn’t say Embroidery.

The hips showed in pictures and the embroidery on a collar or on a scarf tied around her head to keep her curls tame showed as well. But her tongue trouble stayed hidden in the negatives – with her breasts: soft – too soft she was scared sometimes nobody would like them. But then, she didn’t really imagine who this someone would be. Her imagination which couldn’t see fingers embroidering with blue thread couldn’t see someone loving her breasts.

When her breasts filled up to their most and her hips settled in a shape she loved, she said it right. In the dark, she would say it out loud to herself: slow and steady. Diligent. Like her fingers the first time she came. And when the letters flowed like wetness, she would say it in the light but keep the loving to herself and someone-s else.

She never thought it would come loose.

Thread also comes. Thread tends to do that – it lets go.

Her imagination found out that there was to be a plural for who might love her breasts. The stitching remained a mystery.

She had mastered the art of articulation and the art of filling whiteness with the powder of soft pastels. The pictures no more revealed things she wanted to stow. She kept everything open. They started showing her new gained confidence at saying Embroidery. It gleamed in a turquoise earring, a turquoise nail.

Then there was the sea.

It was by the sea. She wasn’t there but she stumbled on the picture of the woman in a turquoise galabya – embroidered down the front.

What else could be more right? Turquoise galabya hand embroidered and the whiteness of an empty sheet of paper waiting for color.

She filled. She filled like fills everything: gaps in conversations, hunger in lovers, holes in herself.

She filled till the woman who gave her to the world through an earlier generation came to blue-ness.

She kept it under the bed – large and covered in pastel and Cairo dust.

By the time she could say embroidery in her other tongue, taatreez, she had fallen on to the old galabya turned inside out, the guts of it naked and raw and connected in a frenzy unlike the front.

There was a knot – like the ones in her curls. And since there was no balsam for the twisted thread, she pulled.

She pulled in the same room where she had pulled him to her to feel anything of what she feels alone. And again, it came.

It came loose. All the effort of the tireless hands to stitch and embroider came loose on the bed where she had lain, open and waiting for stitches to perhaps bring them both together – closer. She pulled at the knot like she pulled him – gently but with hope crammed in her throat.

She pulled.

Perhaps she will know why hands do the act of embroidery. Embroider.

She pulled.

Thinking that if she gave that last thing kept so well – so like the knot tucked away in the threads – he would love her Overthelimitofweight hips. 

Grandad, faded and mute. We finger the photograph, hoping that something will stir in you, make you talk to us from the page like you never did in life. "He was a silent one," mom says. "I don’t think I knew him," Coleen adds. Our eyes linger on the ashy whiteness of your hair,  brown blind eyes, wobbly behind black-framed spectacles that never gave you sight. You felt for your bottle of brandy, patted the table seeking your ham and mustard sandwiches, your Rothmans Plain and box of matches, your ashtray filled with the carcasses of too many cigarettes, too many memories. Hopefully your trench at Westpark Cemetery is more peaceful than the mass grave at Somme.

I want to slip the photograph from behind its cellophane wrap, to read the name written on the back. Is it Robert Shaw, Bertie Abercrombie or simply Bob? Who were you granddad? Was Robert Shaw the kid who lied about his age so that he could assume the duties no man should ever have to assume? Did he become the sullen man who banged in the cellar to fool granny into thinking you were working instead of drinking? Was Bertie Abercrombie the grandfather who jogged me, and memories of his mother, on his knee, singing "I’ll take the high road, and you’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye?" A reel of plaintive melodies sung in the brandy and cigarette gruffness of your seldom-tested voice. Was Bob the unsteady man I led across the busy streets of Johannesburg to the betting shop where you placed a bet on Uncle Bert, your jockey son?

On the pages of Birdsong I read you, sucked into the trenches of a war that led to another crueller one. I finally understood the reason for a blindness you never regretted, for who wants to see the inhumanity that mankind is capable of? Could the black companion of sightlessness obliterate the sights of war, or did blindness impound you in the bleak mud of memory – cruel in its inescapability; a macabre canvas to highlight the lows of your life?

Who tied the bowtie at your throat; did you retrain your hands for finesse? When did you slough the rot of soft skin on your feet and learn to walk in a gentleman’s hand-crafted shoes? The rose pinned to your lapel could not supersede the sweet smell of putrid flesh, only one swallowed glass after another of the sharp bite of brandy could obliterate the unforgiving odour of death.

What beverage or drug gave you faith in your fellow man, in yourself, to live again. Death was your companion for three years, she courted your fellow soldiers daily, took them to their deaths nightly. Were you relieved that she didn’t cast a glance in your direction, or, like every man with a healthy ego, did you long to be taken, courted by the damning fireworks that accompanied the final dance of life. You don’t reply; just stare – faded and mute.

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Although it wasn’t shot by a professional photographer, she sees it the best picture she ever has, that’s why she put it in a frame in her room. It was a picture ofone year in this new world. She was small – that the picture has a space to show her face and body obviously with the surroundings – and young but her features are clearer in this picture than any picture else. Although she has only one copy of it, she doesn’t want to hide it in the album like the others, which sometimes embarrass her for unwelcome memories. She cannot recall any incidents about this picture; all she sees in it was the true smile of her face looking to the world assuredly, sending rays of hope from her eyes, which were the only outlet for the great happiness born in her small heart. She knew that this baby – who was wrapped in the pink blanket – lying in the bed with one eye half closed while she is smiling having very short hair that shows her beauty showing her palms to the camera that she is not hiding anything

Although it wasn’t shot by a professional photographer, she considers it the best picture she ever has, so she put it in a frame in her room. It is the only picture – among others in her full three albums – that won this particular space of her interest. It is a picture of her after spending only few months in this new world. Although she was small that the picture shows her face and body in full with the surroundings, her features are clearer in this picture than any picture else. She has only one copy of it, and yet she ventured and moved it from the album; she didn’t want it to be among the others, which sometimes embarrass her by bringing back unwelcome memories. She cannot recall any incidents about this picture; that’s why she appreciates it. Whenever she comes by it, she sees the true smile of her face looking to the world assuredly, sending rays of hope from her eyes, which are the only outlet for the great happiness born in her small heart. She looks to this baby – who was wrapped in the pink blanket – and sees the resemblance. The same smile that makes one of her eyes half closed. She – still the same – does not want to see the whole life as it is, with its ups and downs, she only wants to see the same shinning part of life. She thinks that the flaws of life are dim and dull to be shot and it is enough for her to see them once. The picture shows her small palms open as if she tells the beholder that she doesn’t hide anything. Unfortunately she still has this habit of showing her feelings even when she tries to hide them. She doesn’t learn how to keep her feelings inside when she wants to. She couldn’t grow up in certain aspects; sometimes she feels that she framed herself in this picture voluntarily to see that some features like content hasn’t yet disappeared. Although years have added to her the state of being worried all the time about life, she bears it, as she knows it is a sign of being a grown up.

صورة برائتي

افتح "ألبوم" به صور لي و أنا في الثالثة من عمري.. هناك صورة دائماً ما تستوقفني كلما فتحت هذا "الألبوم". هي صورة التقتتها لي امي في شرفة شقة الإسكندرية، وقت كانت الإسكندرية عروساً لم يرهقها الزمن و العمر الطويل

في خلفية الصورة سماء صافية جدا، تتداخل الوانها مع لون البحر اسفلها. يتداخل اللون الأزرق الفاتح للسماء مع لون البحر "التركوازي" و يشكلان نسيجاً واحداً تكاد العين غير قادرة على ان تفصل بينهما و تحدد البحر من السماء. يختلف لونهما في الصورة كثيرا عن لون سماء و بحر الإسكندرية الآن بعد ان اغتصبهما التلوث

يظهر بعد ذلك في الصورة سور الشرفة الأخضر، و أقف أنا امامه. انظر إلى عدسة الكاميرا لتلتقت لي أمي صورة كعادتها في "المصيف" كل عام. ما يشد إنتباهي دائماً في الصورة هي نظرة من عينين بنيتين واسعتين بهما براءة واضحة وضح الشمس. كل ما في الصورة يذكرني بكم كنت طفلة بريئة، اذناي الشديدتا الصغر، منخاري الذي يكاد لا يرى من صغر حجمه و فمي المنمنم الذي اضع فيه اصبعي " النونو". أما شعري، فهو مصفف على شكل اذنا القطة. كانت امي دائما ما تصفف لي شعري على هذا الشكل. و كانت تختار لي بعناية ما ارتديه من ملابس، فالفستان الذي ارتديه في الصورة من اختيارها هي. ذوقها رائع. هو فستان يتناسب جدا مع جو "المصيف"، لونه ابيض، و به نقوش باللون الأزرق و الأصفر، و له حمالتين رفيعتين تكشفا عن اذرعي

تستوقفني دائماً هذه الصورة لأنها تجسيد حقيقي للبراءة. اتمعن النظر في نظرتي في الصورة و اتمنى ان يرجع بي الزمن لهذا العمر مرة اخرى. كم كنت بريئة!! وضع اصبعي في فمي يذكرني بكم كنت ساذجة غير مكترثة بكل ما كان يحدث من حولي.. كل ما كان يشغل بالي حينها هو اللعب.. فستاني و شعري يذكراني بكم كنت معتمدة على امي اعتمادا كليا.. لم يكن لي اختيار في اي شيء، و لذلك لم اشعر ابدا بتعب و لم يصبني اي سوء

كلما تكشِّفت لي خبايا الدنيا و شعرت بضيق، ارجع إلى هذه الصورة التي تأخذني إلى وقت كنت لا اعلم شيء، و تمر الساعات دون أن ادري و انا انظر إلى الصورة، انعي برائتي، و اتمنى ان انسى ما علمته عن الدنيا و خباياها

I know that this post is way too late, But the thing is that I've written something very related to this topic, and I find it very relevant although I'm not contributing of course in the competition,and also due to technical problem I couldn't post my piece in the arabic writings's section..so please accept it here

ربما هذا هو السبب وراء عدم اهتمامها المفاجىء بالكاميرا؟؟

كانت تتقن فن تثبيت الزمان…تلتقط اللحظة,فتستبقيها حية…لا منتهية..

عاشقة للبدايات, خائفة دوماً من النهايات, غير مدركة أن تلك النهايات  المكروهة,هى ذاتها شباك الأمل للبدايات التى ترتجيها…

و بعدما التقطت عدستها لحظات كانت تظنها الأهم و الأسعد بحياتها…أصبحت تلك اللحظات المؤرّخة,هى ما تتمنى أن تمحيه من أيامها…بعدما اّلامها..بحق, و بعمق…

القت بالصور فى أحد الأركان, أهانتها,أهملتها..و كرهت لحظات حسبتها يوماً لحظات تستحق محاربة الزمان كى تعيش…

و لم تعد تهتم بعد…بفن تثبيت الزمان فى إطارات قلبية مبهجة…