This is a favorite image from my earlier shooting in Korea, in the winter of 2002-2003, when I was a pure street photographer and hadn't yet started down the trajectories that my subsequent interests would take me, namely those of "fetishized femininity" and other specific documentary subjects in Seoul. In this picture, I noticed this homeless man as I passed by and I still remember the moment of decision in which my mind was telling me, on the one hand, to keep walking, it was cold, and that he probably was going to just yell at me no matter how nicely I asked him to take his picture; on the other hand, if there was even a slim chance that I could get an inpromptu portrait and that he wouldn't break up the natural mood and desired composition by then, in order to please the photographer, he started becoming self-conscious and noticeably aware of the camera. Instead, he completely ignored me after giving his gruff consent for me to take his picture.
What struck me was the obvious contrast between the brightly-lit and festive tree on the right, as well as the environment and space it defines, witih shoppers coming up from the background, which stands in sharp contrast to the dirty wall, sticker-covered pipe, and generally darker left side of the picture. I took almost a half-roll of film while the man just continued standing in the exact same position, with the exact same blank stare he had had when I first passed by. I gave him 20,000 won for his trouble, since I had asked him to pose. I figured he could use as much as I had to spare to give him, and that it would go a lot further for him than for whatever crap I was going to do with the equivalent of twenty bucks. I was the most I could do.
This picture meant a lot to me as a photographer, because it was one of my first "serious" shots – defined I guess as images that seem to contain some degree of gravity and social criticism – and that I had pushed myself past my normal level of comfort in order to make the shot. Thereafter, I started "finding my voice" as it were, as a photographer. To use a more medium-appropriate description, I had begun to find my authority as a photographer, which is actually a hard thing to do. Many people always ask me when one can officially call oneself a photographer, or how that is defined. I myself struggled with that question. I simply define it as Ken Light, an accomplished and respected documentary photographer with whom I had the honor to briefly study before coming to Korea, did – he simply said that "a photographer shoots." Period. That defines the major difference between an amateur and a serious photographer. And he suggested that one way to judge this is by looking at the negatives you bring back. An amateur takes snapshots and has mostly single shots of various things on a roll. A pro has multiple shots, half a roll, even an entire roll of the same subject, but caught in different poses, compositions, instants to capture just the right moment. It is a sign of a tenacity that amateurs don't have.
But there's something else. There's a self-confidence that comes from having a certain kind of authority when you're behind the camera. What I got from shots such as these was the feeling that I was doing something bigger than just me – I wasn't taking pictures just for my own edification, although that self-motivated drive was there – I was recording for others, as a means of conveying that moment to others, as a way of making a statement. In this way, I felt that I wasn't an amateur anymore; most amateurs don't push themselves past that weird line of comfort that governs our social interactions:
"Don't talk to strangers."
"Don't do that. People might notice."
"Don't ask permission before taking pictures."
"What if I get caught?"
"Who am I kidding? I'm not a real professional. So why take the picture?"
"I'm just being a voyeur."
"People might think I'm showing off."
"I might get in trouble."
These are the impulses that keeps our hand off the shutter, the camera in the bag, and our photographic eyes closed. People who like my photography always say that they want to take certain pictures of stuff they see in Korea, but are dogged by one of the questions above. My suggestion is to learn by doing – shoot. My response to the questions above?
"Talk to strangers. You'll meet interesting people. And it won't kill you."
"So what? You'll never see them again. And it won't kill you."
"What documentary photographer asks permission before taking pictures? We wouldn't have many of the world's best pictures if we spent all our time asking people for permission. And since you want real pictures, you can't ask before the fact. And most people don't notice anyway."
"Who cares if you get caught? They won't kill you."
"Take the picture because you want to. Fret about whether you'll use it later."
"If you're taking the picture because you think it worth taking, you're not being a voyeur."
"If you're even worried enough to be worried about looking like you're showing off, you're not."
"No, you probably won't get in trouble. Unless you're on a military base. Then they might kill you."
In any case, getting the self-confidence only comes from forcing yourself to step over that line of "normal" behavior. And the more you do that, the easier it becomes. Of course, I draw the line well before most Korean photographers do, as I generally don't interfere with the scene, I don't direct people, etc. So I am actually in a mode of nearly complete detachment from the subjects, which can be a huge advantage a lot of the time. Sometimes, I'll even shoot while using my in-the-ear headphones with my iPod. Then the detachment is nearly complete, although you are removing sound as a crucial sense to help guide your shooting, responding to changes in the environment, etc. For this reason, I usually forswear headphones and really try to keep on top of the environment I'm in. But still, sometimes this artificial detachment can push you to take pictures you might not if you were in a fully aware mode. I found this most useful in my early street photography days.
"Northern Exposure"
This sense of authority and mustering up the mental moxie to carry myself like a photographer is what led to this picture of the North Korean cheer team doing their stuff in formation. I got right up to where only the press corps was allowed – without a press pass – and used my 85mm to compress depth of field and get a solid line of faces. Yeah, it resembles what a lot of the press corps came up with, but the triumph for me was in getting this picture that only real photographers could get. And I don't mean that in terms of equipment, having the right credentials, or any other accoutrements of being a journalist. What I mean is that, having had the equipment and the big black bag helped, but the deciding factor was that I walked right into the press area as if I belonged, because I believed I belonged there. Yes, being a foreigner among an all-Korean press corps helped – because "hey, aren't all foreigners just English teachers? He must be here as a real journalist if he's got that camera and big bag" – but the attitude was key. That put me in the position to use my photo skills and nice lens to get the shot I wanted. The equipment didn't enable the shot – I did. And that's what counts.
