Vanishing Evidences |
Written by Pedro Meyer |
Photographing at night in Mexico City
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I had just been surrounded by 15 police cars. Their red and blue lights flashed, blinking all over the landscape at 1:30 in the morning. Surrounding my car, there were no less than 80 policemen, some of them boasting heavy duty machineguns that made the “Terminator” look like, well, just a governor of California. I must say that, if it had not been quite so real, this scenario looked pretty much like something out of a bad movie. What I am about to tell must be one of the most colorful stories told in a long time, combining the crossroads from analog to digital photography, sex, accidents and a lot of unforeseen twists and turns, that will prove to be quite worthy of an end of year finale.
I was comissioned by one of our main museums in Mexico City to produce a body of work for a permanent exhibition to be shown during the forthcoming five years. I would photograph the activities that take place in the city from 8pm to 6am. The inducement to cover those hours proved two fold for me. Not only did I find what went on during those hours very challenging, but I also knew that taking pcitures under poor lighting conditions and with digital technology would certainly be an interesting experience. Compared to what could be shot on conventional film, capturing images in weak lighting is quite something else. I have found that my digital cameras are much more responsive to low light than the counterpart cameras using film. And now, having a new Nikon lens, supported by a vibration reduction motor, I would be able to add 3 f stops. The new technology would offer amazing results.
However, I would have to confront one major problem. Going around the city during those hours of the night and in the rough neighborhoods I was to visit was not precisely what anyone would consider a safe situation, either for myself or for the photographic equipment I was to take along. I had absolutely no desire to be mugged or of being separated from my digital cameras. For this very same reason, I asked the museum director if the Police Department of the city would be able to provide two undercover agents that could offer me assistance and protection during the week I would be taking the photographs. The Police Department showed great understanding and straight away offered to help me out because the project seemed quite interesting. I was thrilled.
Taking into account that my activities would require new strategies, I invited various friends to join me in the realization of the project. To begin with, I asked one of my colleagues to take pictures of me during the process of photographing from a wheelchair. I asked yet another colleague to make sound recordings of the places we were to visit shortly. Thus, we would later be able to create audio-visual material of this experience.
According to each particular situation, they would say I was either a famous movie director looking for sets for his next movie, a politician who was enjoying a voyeuristic experience having a night out in town, or a T.V. journalist filming a story for one of the television networks. Paradoxically, the one and only thing I was never accused or suspected of being was a straight and simple photographer: a fact which tells us something interesting about our profession and about how dull we are perceived to be.
The scenes we encountered cruising from the car would of course be very diverse, from prostitues lighting up a small bonfire in order to warm up their behind in the bitter cold nights of Mexico City, to soldiers being arrested for urinating on the sidewalk, or people collecting discarded materials to make a living. In some ways, all representing very basic human needs.
The nightly escapades went on daily. We were politely turned down in many nightclubs, table dance places as well as transvestite clubs. The main reasons we were always given actually made sense.The managers wanted to protect their clients. They felt concerned that my pictures could compromise them, as they didn't know if the pictures would be eventually published, even though we had the very best intentions in mind. The more elegant and upscale the establishment, the less amenable they were to let me photograph it. However, not everyone turned us down.
In one of the beer-halls we went to, we sensed trouble almost as soon as we got into the establishment. The undercover cops came up to me and explained the exit strategy we would follow in case things got rougher. They told me they would only concentrate in rushing me out of the place in my wheelchair, leaving the others to fend for themselves as, surely, they would be able to manage a lot better on their own. Besides, their assignment consisted in protecting me and no one else. The whole trouble started when a lovers’ brawl flared up between a transvestite and his/her lover. Some beer bottles started to fly. The owner of the place was a fellow who, in spite of being a deafmute, had a keen sense of all that was happening around him. He had a strict control over his own people. His waiters knew exactly what he expected from each of them, as I overheard one of them explaining to our group. As soon as tempers started to flare, I was pulled out of the direct line of fire by my bodyguards. This was quite the contrary of what I would have actually wished. I would have much rather prefered to walk up to the scene and taken shots of the whole ordeal. But, then, I was not much in a position (no pun intended) to decide differently. The men who had orders to protect me did not mess about with any other options. They just did what they had to.
Later on, one of my friends told me that, as we were leaving the place, he observed that the people across the table from us seemed quite uncomfortable with us being there, as they were distributing among themselves under their table, the whole loot they had obviously taken in during that day: watches of all sorts and odd jewelry. I must admit I never saw any of that. From my vantage point and with all the things I had to deal with, noticing such fine details surely had escaped me, not only at that moment but at other moments as well. Sitting on a wheelchair was evidently taking its toll on my photographic radar screen.
Taking pictures from the car started to work out quite nicely. The policeman who drove my automobile actually did have a sense of what I required as a photographer. This included the angle of vision, the speed in relation to subject matter, and last, but not least, the issues concerning my personal security. This theme would become crucial in our next to last day of shooting.
She then told me in no uncertain terms to place my hand on her breast. My friend Rogelio in the right hand corner expresses very well the surprise I guess we all felt. In fact the photograph is an excellent example of how pictures are such inefficient tools with which to convey "the truth" so many photographers search for so desperately. For instance, the image does not explain anything of what really went on. For instance, the fact that her date or boyfriend was standing to a side telling her, "come on...let's go", and she was probably trying to make him jealous, is not seen here at all. As so often happens, what lies out side the frame of the image, is often as important as what is within the frame itself.
But then this bit about the jealousy is also an assumption I have no idea how truthful it actually is, because another possibility would be that she was just attracted to a certain limelight, in seeing me arrive (she apparently knew who I was) with my crew of people, and with the flash of pictures snapping she might have been prompted to become part of the "show" herself (after all she is an actress). The truth is that nothing of this was more real than a film scene. A fiction that people believe in because it's supported by an image, a photograph which I don't even know who it was taken by, it simply appeared on my camera... someone must have picked up my camera and simply snapped the moment. So not only is the veracity of the content in the image quite suspect but the author is unknown as well. However if you want to imagine that I am a ladies man, go ahead! Just remember, the evidence is only a photograph.
The conversation was interrupted by another young lady who introduced herself as a student of mine.
She asked me if I wanted to photograph in the club, she would be glad to wheel me around the place. And she did, she pushed me around the aisles as if I was a kid sitting in one of those supermarket carts, to finally bring me onto the dance floor were she left me sitting at a table where she had the waiter bring me a pitcher full of beer. Before this, she took my wheel chair and drove me straight into the men's restroom, or at least she tried to, thinking that I would get some great images there. The wheel chair gut stuck in the entrance, as the door was too narrow. My self-appointed guide, was just explaining to anyone who wanted to listen why she was pushing me into the mens toilet, that I was a voyeur and that they should not worry. Not that there was anything to see, so I went along (what else could I do?) with the parody.
Street prostitution was one of the main topics I wanted to photograph, as it is a thriving activity in Mexico City. We headed towards several areas where you can find some of the more fanciful ladies of the night. I was hoping to catch glimmering images from the window of my car. There we were, driving along in our two-car convoy, just as we had on previous days. The people in the second car were coming along just for the run ride, as we were planning to go someplace else afterwards.
I was taking pictures when, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, five characters started to pound on the window of my car, demanding me to turn my camera over to them. I just waved them off, while the cop driving my car suggested we should better move on and get out of there. It wasn’t worth the hassle to confront them directly. So, the driver veered to the left with great expertise, speeding away into the traffic. We thought we had been able to evade the confrontation when, all of a sudden, two blocks further we were cut off by two cars. Out of these cars descended the same thugs that had threatened me earlier. They rushed towards us with the clear intention, written all over their faces, of breaking into the car and grabbing my photographic equipment. They began stomping and kicking the side door of the car. At this point, the cop driving my car flung his door wide open, pulled out his gun and pointed it clearly in the direction of the thugs while, very calmly, he began telling them to get the hell out of there. Meanwhile, the cop in the other car had by now made a special manoeuver. He had come out of his car and was pointing his gun at these same characters from the other side.
Seeing themselves cornered, the thugs withdrew. All the members of my entourage, still sitting inside the two cars and watching the events from within, sighed with relief on seeing that nothing worse had happened. It all could have easily turned into a shooting gallery, worthy of a B movie. The cops got into the cars once the thugs had left. We drove off, hoping this would be the end of it. But this was not to be.
We all decided to remain calm within the safety of our vehicles. All of a sudden, the commander of all these police agents peered into our driver’s window. He demanded our driver to identify himself and was taken aback when he discovered that now he had on his hands a far bigger headache than he had bargained for: the people he was pursuing were policemen themselves. Each of the policemen started to make calls on their cell phones to their respective higher-ups, asking what they should do and how they should deal with this particular situation. Each of the patrol car units were ordered to cool down and to de-scalate the whole thing.
The Mafia wanted blood, but by now there were no guns to be found anywhere. Police officers came swarming down upon us and started to inspect both cars. They checked underneath the seats and also under the car as I sat there with my camera bag sitting on my lap. I looked on nonchalantly. The “Chief” all of a sudden eyed my equipment bag and asked "what's inside?" to which I responded. “My cameras and all the different lenses. Would you like to see?” I said while beginning to remove most of the equipment. He felt satisfied with the quick search.
I asked one of my two undercover agents to explain why on earth, if what they were doing was legal, why did they need to hide their guns. They explained that the most important thing under the circumstances was not to let the issue escalate further, because it could slowly develop into a legal and political embarrassment for some senior officers. So, the more one could do to defuse and erode it all, the better. No sooner was that said, that all of a sudden we had T.V. cameras and their lights streaming through the windows of our two cars. There were also radio reporters and people from the Commission of Human Rights coming to defends us. After all, with all the bells and whistles that must have gone off on one of the main thoroughfares of the city, it was just a matter of time before the press arrived in full regalia to find out what was going on.
At this point, I had had enough. It was now way past five in the morning. So when the press reporters came and the people from the Human Rights Commission made their appearance, I explained to them the full story. After all, I had every right to take pictures from my car, given that I was on a public street and not within any private property. Also, I was taking photographs for a museum and I had all the credentials to prove it. Besides, the two policemen protecting me were on active duty. So, bearing all this in mind, I prompted the Human Rights people to please ask the women, who were still yelling at the top of their lungs about their alleged grievances, if they truly felt they had any complaints pending against me. By now, they had all realized I wasn’t the high government official they imagined me to be and from whom they could extort some sort of benefit. So, with incredible politeness, they waved me off as they had now discovered I was in fact in a wheel chair, saying they had nothing against me. I should leave by all means, “but those two cops and that other guy”, (meaning my personal driver, who had been sitting in the other car and who had gotten out of it with his cell phone in hand, and who was now mistakingly being accused of allegedly holding a gun instead of the cell phone), “they will all have to be taken to the Police station to stand charges” they demanded.
For me and for the people who accompanied me that fateful evening, the night had been full of very interesting issues concerning our different perceptions. In fact, it all had to do with each person’s assumptions and beliefs. It was a dance of distorted fields of reality and vanishing evidences.
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