A soft click

I trudged through the streets of Thailand, the soft weight of my camera pulling on my neck. A cacophony of sound surrounded me. The screeching of car horns, the growl of engines, the constant chatter of voices at the various stands. The conflicting scents of thousands of foods wafted around my body. Aromatic spices mixed with the ambrosial scent of freshly cooked meals lined the air. A small group of children played nearby, chasing each other around a dirty, dry fountain, its prime long gone. The badge adorning my chest felt more like an anchor than a title. I tentatively raised the viewfinder of my camera to my eye, softly depressing the capture button.

A soft click.

Unnoticed, I moved on. A small square of film churned out of the camera and deposited itself into my awaiting hand. I brought it to my face. As I waited for the faint image to sharpen, I quickly brushed the specks of dirt from my camera.

This was a… unique experience. It was also a nice change of pace from the standard nine-to-five office day.

I glanced at the produced image.

Sighing, I continued onwards.

Warm rays of the afternoon sun cut through the broken venetian blinds, generating jarred beams of light which struck the worn oak desk in my hotel room, illuminating the album of photos taken so far.

The wretched job outline lay next to it. The so-called ‘examples’ of photos to be taken. The photos which created the… ‘desired effect’.

I shook my head. My camera sat at the edge of the table, waiting to be called upon once again.

Placing its strap around my neck, I headed out.

I rode through the streets of Bangkok on my scooter, absorbing my surroundings, searching for a suitable viewpoint. I headed towards the centre of Bangkok. The surroundings began to change. I searched for the ones lost to reality. The ones ignored in favour of beautiful ideals. I ignored the vibrant, colourful, lavish and sophisticated buildings. Instead of shops… there were old and decrepit structures, not even worthy of being called houses.

I quickly parked my scooter and prepared my camera. The print of the job outline sat ominously in my mind. I raised the viewfinder of my camera to my eye.

A soft click.

Once again, a small square of film dropped out of the camera and into my awaiting hand. However, rather than waiting for it to focus, I dropped it into an open pouch to be stored and sorted at a later time. I simply continued taking photos. Thoughtlessly, mechanically capturing the parts of Bangkok the brochures chose to ignore.

I noticed some movement in the corner of my eye. A group of small children sat on the cracked dirt floor. Talking. Joking. Laughing.

A young woman sat among them, perched upon an overturned wooden crate. A black cap rested low over her face, but there was something strangely familiar about her. It took me a moment to place it.

"เด็กๆ สนุกกับเรื่องเล่าเมื่อสักครู่นี้ไหมจ๊ะ?" (Children, did you enjoy that story?)

Was that… Pharita?

It seemed paradoxically absurd to recognise one of my favourite idols here, so far removed from the artificial lights and polished stages upon which I had seen her. Yet, the children appeared neither impressed nor interested. To them, she was simply another person. Someone listening to their stories. Someone laughing whenever they laughed. It didn’t matter where they were. All that mattered was who they were with. The experiences they were sharing.

Carefully, slowly, I aimed my camera towards them. Zooming in on their faces, I depressed the capture button.

A soft click.

This time, I was noticed.

Pharita looked towards me. Her expression was not angry. Not accusatory. She merely glanced at the square of film emerging from the camera. I guess the ‘Photographer’ label I’d been asked to wear spoke words I didn’t have to say.

“Let them see it,” she said.

She nodded towards the children.

I looked down at the film in my hand. Slowly, the faint outlines began to sharpen. The children crowded around me as I lowered it towards them. One pointed at his own face. Another laughed. Soon, all of them were talking over one another, fighting to hold the photograph.

Pharita smiled faintly before returning to the wooden crate, gesturing for me to follow. I took a seat next to her.

“Why did you pick them?” she asked softly.

In the moment, nothing came to mind. I shrugged noncommitantly.

“I wanted to capture something real”, I replied.

Pharita met my eyes for a moment, noticing the slight recognition, then looked back at the children, still fussing over the film.

“I assume you recognise me”.

I nodded slowly. Some people knew of BABYMONSTER. Not many people had Pharita’s photocard hanging from their car mirror. I happened to be one of those people.

“What’s your name?”, she asked. I told her. “You’re a photographer?”. I nodded in agreement.

She processed for a moment, before looking back at the children.

“People follow me around, staring at me, waiting for me, obsessed with what I’m doing, what I’m wearing. It’s not often that someone sees past it, sees the beauty in what life can bring. The simplest things, but maybe the most valuable”, she murmured.

I listened. I didn’t really know what else to do.

The square of film was eventually handed back to me. I studied the photo I had taken. The euphoria embalmed upon their faces as they played. Permanently captured in the everlasting form of a piece of film.

It was their picture too.

I dropped it into my pouch.

"Why are you taking these photos?”, Pharita asked.

I took a moment. Why was I taking these photos? The simple answer was, ‘it’s my job’. But, even as I tried to form the words with my lips, it didn’t feel right. I’d sat with Pharita for all of two minutes, and yet, I felt comfortable.

“Do you want the real answer or the basic answer?” I finally replied.

Pharita looked at me inquisitively.

“…the real answer?”

I looked away again.

“The real answer is that I don’t know. I’m stuck in a glass box, watching the world go by, trying to find my place in it. I torture myself, trying desperately to figure out if I’m capturing truths and realities, or if I’m perpetuating a narrative of what ‘truth’ is which has been carefully curated for the masses”.

I met her gaze again, before looking back at the children.

“You must think I’m nuts after that, waffling my insecurities out to a stranger, but that is how I feel these days”, I said softly.

Pharita started giggling. My head snapped back to her in shock. She had a tiny grin on her face.