The Photograph
The traveller surveyed his surroundings as his eyes became accustomed to the dusty half light. The shuttered windows, cemented into place by decades of dust and grime, were slatted at half mast, allowing only limited light to enter the wooden building. He could make out the shadowy forms of furniture- chests of drawers, wardrobes, plan chests, trunks… many stacked one atop another, tottering like bizarre cabinet totems. He edged forward into the room, picking a path through the dusty menagerie of chaotic furniture, his throat beginning to itch with the clogging dust that his eyes could see floating heavily in shafts of milky light. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the light, he became aware of something that until this point had eluded him- his consciousness was catching up with his vision to make sense of his surroundings- and now it was clear that every surface, every bizarre stack of furniture, every wall space and much of the ceiling was hung with mirrors. Reflective surfaces of every kind greeted his eyes, and discombobulated his senses. Ornate rococo monstrosities, plain 1950’s mediocrity, bulbous fish eye, 1930’s art deco, ancient Chinese- mirrors from every age and every continent were affixed to every possible surface. Judging by the way they were layered- like fish scales one over another- the collection must have been amassed and mounted over a tremendous period of time. Small reflective objects- pieces of shiny metal, polished tin foil, flattened tin cans- filled the gaps left by untessellated mirrors.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the traveller roused himself from his contemplative reverie- for in mirrors as in dreams the passage of time is elastic and as intangible as gossamer. He gathered himself, and walked forward, easily rousing a cough to announce his presence. After a few moments, a gnarled and crooked-spined old man emerged- apparently from a thousand different directions at once- and shuffled past the traveller. In one hand he held a large black box, in the other a telescopic wooden tripod, and about his neck was slung a canvas bag laden with glass plates of varying sizes, small containers and various metal vessels that clanked against each other as he slowly humped his way towards a low doorway to the left of the room. The old photographer seemed not to even notice the presence of the traveller, as his entire purpose seemed centred on hauling his ancient from and the antique equipment slung about it out into the garden beyond the doorway.
The traveller looked on silently as the old man mounted the equipment gingerly, barely able to lift the weight of the box camera with his frail fingers. The process seemed to take an eternity, but was meticulously carried out with the precision of a zen master in a tea service. Small canisters were arranged in a neat row on the floor, glass plates leaned carefully, individually at the foot of the tripod. Eventually, and with what looked like the last breath of life being expelled in the effort, the old man straightened slightly, and gazed through the small lens of the black box. It was only when he did this, that the traveller became aware of the subject of this performance – a young boy, standing entirely still and patient, and utterly silent about 10 yards from the camera. The old man made one or two small adjustments to unseen dials on the other side of the camera. He lowered his eye to the lens, and held his hand aloft to indicate that the process of capture was underway. He remained motionless in this unnatural position for a long time. The boy stood obediently, his small glassy eyes looking straight into the dot of the aperture. His discipline was absolute, his sense of duty impregnable. Not even the presence of the enormous snake, whose coiling hypnotic movement was now only inches from the boy’s shoes, would break his commitment to the moment being captured for posterity.