Christopher Briscoe's Blog
February 10, 2020
I don't take photographs. I give them away.
In some cultures, it’s understood that once a photo is snapped of you, part of your soul goes with it. Although I’ve been a professional photographer for 38 years, I often wonder if that may be true.
When traveling, you see it all the time. A tourist snaps a photo of someone and keeps walking. At best, maybe the photographer will show the back of the camera to the subject for a moment. He/she keeps it in the camera and says good-bye. To me this is a bumpy, one-sided exchange.
Ten years ago, I was in a Thailand city dump, photographing refugees from Myanmar who had escaped across a river to a tenuous freedom, making their home among hills of garbage. In my camera bag was a small battery powered HP inkjet photo printer - about the size of a shoebox. Walking down a trail of ash, I asked a family sitting in front of a hut roofed with plastic and an old sleeping bag if I could take a photo. Not sure what I was asking, the father nodded. When I handed him a small print of his wife, I was surrounded by new friends who wanted their turn.
Two years ago I traveled to Mumbai, India and walked into the slum where the movie Slum Dog Millionaire was filmed. The new printer I had was the size of a cell phone and didn’t require any ink and talked to my camera via Bluetooth. As expected, I felt the untrusting eyes of many, who carefully watched this wandering foreigner. With the help of a translator, I asked a young woman if I could take a photo of her with her baby. We explained that I wanted to give her a print. I understood the look in her eyes - mistrust mixed with a question of why? But when I handed the young mother what may have been the first photo anyone had taken of her child, her eyes brightened as she showed it to her friends. For the rest of the afternoon, my little photo printer worked hard as I gave away prints. I felt as though I had been handed the keys to the city.
Today, I am in Eritrea, a tiny country bordering the Red Sea in Africa. I’m with a handful of eye surgeons from the Himalayan Cataract Project, some who travel here from around the world, to bring back sight to nearly 1,500 patients a week. Every morning, I follow the docs through a huge, open tent, watching them remove bandages that cover the eyes of patients, many of whom have trekked all day and have waited a long time to experience a miracle. When the bandages are finally off, patients often stare for a bit, their brains not sure how to process the fact that they can finally see. Tears gently trickle down their cheeks to their mouth that slowly breaks into a smile. That’s when they look up at the MD who performed this miracle and take their hand, kiss it and bow in gratitude. That’s also the moment when my own eyes begin to brim, reminding me how grateful I feel, witnessing a moment in a life that has been completely changed.
Later, my little plastic machine hums. Slowly, the color print emerges and lands in their well-worn hands. With new sight, the African stares into the photograph, as if discovering herself for the first time. They smile and look up at me, probably wondering why tears are flowing down my face.
Regrettably, I am not a doctor. I am a mere photographer who is able to preserve a moment in their life, and offer a portrait as a tiny gift of gratitude.
Looking deeply into this beautiful face, perhaps you can see that I am reflected in her eyes - a metaphor for why I do what I do. For this instant, I am a part of her as much as she is a part of me. We are connected, sharing who we are. That’s what I want to do with my work - connect us all - one print at a time.
Visit http://bit.ly/IDontTakePhotos to experience more.
When traveling, you see it all the time. A tourist snaps a photo of someone and keeps walking. At best, maybe the photographer will show the back of the camera to the subject for a moment. He/she keeps it in the camera and says good-bye. To me this is a bumpy, one-sided exchange.
Ten years ago, I was in a Thailand city dump, photographing refugees from Myanmar who had escaped across a river to a tenuous freedom, making their home among hills of garbage. In my camera bag was a small battery powered HP inkjet photo printer - about the size of a shoebox. Walking down a trail of ash, I asked a family sitting in front of a hut roofed with plastic and an old sleeping bag if I could take a photo. Not sure what I was asking, the father nodded. When I handed him a small print of his wife, I was surrounded by new friends who wanted their turn.
Two years ago I traveled to Mumbai, India and walked into the slum where the movie Slum Dog Millionaire was filmed. The new printer I had was the size of a cell phone and didn’t require any ink and talked to my camera via Bluetooth. As expected, I felt the untrusting eyes of many, who carefully watched this wandering foreigner. With the help of a translator, I asked a young woman if I could take a photo of her with her baby. We explained that I wanted to give her a print. I understood the look in her eyes - mistrust mixed with a question of why? But when I handed the young mother what may have been the first photo anyone had taken of her child, her eyes brightened as she showed it to her friends. For the rest of the afternoon, my little photo printer worked hard as I gave away prints. I felt as though I had been handed the keys to the city.
Today, I am in Eritrea, a tiny country bordering the Red Sea in Africa. I’m with a handful of eye surgeons from the Himalayan Cataract Project, some who travel here from around the world, to bring back sight to nearly 1,500 patients a week. Every morning, I follow the docs through a huge, open tent, watching them remove bandages that cover the eyes of patients, many of whom have trekked all day and have waited a long time to experience a miracle. When the bandages are finally off, patients often stare for a bit, their brains not sure how to process the fact that they can finally see. Tears gently trickle down their cheeks to their mouth that slowly breaks into a smile. That’s when they look up at the MD who performed this miracle and take their hand, kiss it and bow in gratitude. That’s also the moment when my own eyes begin to brim, reminding me how grateful I feel, witnessing a moment in a life that has been completely changed.
Later, my little plastic machine hums. Slowly, the color print emerges and lands in their well-worn hands. With new sight, the African stares into the photograph, as if discovering herself for the first time. They smile and look up at me, probably wondering why tears are flowing down my face.
Regrettably, I am not a doctor. I am a mere photographer who is able to preserve a moment in their life, and offer a portrait as a tiny gift of gratitude.
Looking deeply into this beautiful face, perhaps you can see that I am reflected in her eyes - a metaphor for why I do what I do. For this instant, I am a part of her as much as she is a part of me. We are connected, sharing who we are. That’s what I want to do with my work - connect us all - one print at a time.
Visit http://bit.ly/IDontTakePhotos to experience more.
