SCENES OF UNIMPORTANCE
stories inside the pictures. fotos y textos de Raúl Fernández photos and texts by Raúl Fernández
SCENES OF UNIMPORTANCE
stories inside the pictures. fotos y textos de Raúl Fernández photos and texts by Raúl Fernández
Junio 2009 Edición, textos, fotos y diseño editorial: Raúl Fernández [www.mareavacia.com] Declaración de derechos: Siéntete libre de usar las fotos y los textos para lo que quieras; simplemente cita el autor, por favor. Fotos tomadas en Amsterdam, en julio de 2007. June 2009 Edition, texts, photographs and editorial design: Raúl Fernández [www.mareavacia.com] Photographs rights: Be free to use these photos and texts; you only have to give my name, please. Pictures taken in Amsterdam, in july 2007.
Scenes of unimportance like ph things that go to make up a life Help us someone, let us out of living here so long undisturbed dreaming of the time we were so many years go, before the time when we first h ‘welcome to the home by the se
Home by the sea Š 1983, Anthony Banks Ltd./P
hotos in a frame, e. here d free
heard ea’.
Philip Collins Ltd./Michael Rutherford Ltd./Hit and Run Music (Publishing) Ltd.
En julio de 2007, con motivo de la última gira del grupo de rock Genesis, realicé un pequeño viaje de cuatro días a Amsterdam. Vagando por las calles del barrio del Jordaan, buscaba un tema para hacer un reportaje de fotos, y me topé con él en una de las canciones del grupo (Home by the sea); en concreto, una frase que decía:
scenes of unimportance like photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.
Empecé a pensar en ello, en las escenas sin importancia que vemos o vivimos todos los días sin prestarles atención ni darles la verdadera importancia que tienen y sin llegar a ver la pequeña historia que encierran en su interior. Las escenas sin importancia son aquellos momentos que pasan desapercibidos, aquellos sucesos sin trascendencia, aquellos instantes que no recordaríamos sin esfuerzo, pero que forman parte integrante de nuestras vidas y moldean nuestro espíritu y nuestra forma de ser mucho más de lo que creeríamos, sencillamente porque cada una de esas escenas lleva una historia en su interior. Una historia difícil de sacar a la luz, fundamentada en nuestros recuerdos, nuestros miedos, nuestras sombras, nuestras inquietudes… Una historia tan íntima como nuestros pensamientos más profundos. Historias que forjan nuestra personalidad y nos hacen humanos.
Raúl Fernández, mayo de 2009
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In July 2007, during the last tour of the rock band Genesis, I made a short trip to Amsterdam for four days. Wandering through the streets of the Jordaan district, I was looking for a theme for a photo reportage, and I found it in a song (Home by the sea), in particular, a sentence that said:
scenes of unimportance like photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.
I started to think about it, the scenes of unimportant we see or we live every day without paying attention or giving them the true significance they have, and without seeing the hidden stories inside them. The scenes of unimportant are those not important moments that go unnoticed, those events with no significance, those seconds we do not remember without effort, but they are an integral part of our lives and shape our spirit and our way of being much more than you believe, simply because each of these scenes takes a story in it. A difficult story to bring to light, based on our memories, our fears, our shadows, our concerns... a story as intimate as our deepest thoughts. Stories that shape our personality and make us human.
RaĂşl FernĂĄndez, may 2009
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Nick changed his course for the fourth or fif
time. The street of the market seemed to be same as the big bridge’s one, and this seeme to be the same as the street near the clock to golden numbers. All they were paved with th straight and smooth cobblestones, perfect as with newly grown mold between the joints, a arranged at an angle of ninety degrees on th but parallel on the pavement. The houses we nearly identical to the same design, with the narrow and elongated forms and large windo reflecting the green colours of the channels. all the doors were very similar, and all the s had the same forms, and all the bells sounde same. It was very easy to get lost in the stre the Jordaan, and Nick did it while he took so pictures for a stupid ad he had to make.
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fth the ed also ower of he same s bricks, and he road, ere all e same ows . And stairs ed the eets of ome
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It started to rain, and the thin metal poles got wet throughout the streets, as the few umbrellas that were opened, and mostly the people, all them in a hurry that Monday morning. Nick stood sadly in front of a window and looked inside. The books were stacked up on the wooden floor, waiting to be sorted, and that reminded Nick a previous history. Not too interested in remembering that episode, he went ahead with an unpleasant feeling in the stomach. He thought he was too slow in taking pictures and it was time to stop wandering. He went into an old bruin cafĂŠ. He asked for a Heineken and sat inside, far away from the eyes of the transients. He checked their thoughts for a moment, took the mobile phone and sought among the contact list to stop in the name of a girl. He called.
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Twen the b accom but th same they while listen He th about Leids refug menu and c a win umbr prese chatt
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nty minutes later Nick was still sitting in background of the cafĂŠ, but now he was mpanied. It was not raining outside now, he moisture in the atmosphere was the e. They asked for two more beers and then left. The boy and the girl walked for a e, as she told the same story once again. He ned patiently and she was grateful for that. hought of kissing her, but she only thought t the same talk. Before they reached seplain it started to rain again. They took ge in a small restaurant and asked for the u. Thai salad for him, maybe too spicy, chicken for her. The table was near from ndow and they could see people with their rellas and bicycles. He was absorbed in her ence, and she had stopped a little in their ter.
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Suddenly, and without thinking it, Nick got out his camera and made a couple of quick photos, almost out of focus, with rain and street background. She grumbled for a second but then smiled. “I cannot be a model for free”, she said, “You’ll pay this lunch, at least”. Nick said yes with his eyes and continued taking pictures. Photos that he would put in a frame later, at his small apartment, scenes of unimportance that he would recall, because it had happened in other occasions. He was obsessed with capturing the moment, freezing time in an image, a thought, an emotion. He thought that if he did it, he would be the owner of his life, his acts, and the life and acts of other people. He was wrong, of course. He even was not able to ask her to stay a little bit longer, or to kiss her. Before he could open his mouth she was leaving. “I have to go now. See you another day, ok?” were the last words she said before disappearing among the moisture and cold in Leidseplain. But he had the photos. And they provided him an great inner peace. Because he believed that he possessed her. He really believed that, in a way, he had stolen her soul, or at least borrowed it.
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Suddenly he felt in the shoulder a known hand. “You’re a pervert, Nick”, sa to the table. “Please, stop taking pictures and using them for sinister aims”, outside and Nick kept his camera. “Take less photos and more care”, discus was not entirely true, and part of his happiness now was in that. He repeate 32
aid someone behind him. Nick turned to greet an old friend and invite him , he said obtaining a confirmation smile from Nick. The rain had stopped ssed his friend. “Or you’ll never get anything�. Nick liked to think that this ed over and over again the same thoughts, and he seemed to be a little bit 33
absent. Then, he and his friend got up and ev to do some pictures to his friend, but he didn street juggler who was making magic tricks audience. Nick took photos for a couple of m Nick and posed for him. But it wasn’t the sam memory card, some pictures for which he pa basket of coloured wool among other coins a a few phrases, but Nick answered with diffic stories behind the pictures, things behind th be sought between the immensity of reality. improvised models. That was not part of cre surrounding atmosphere of his creative gen unimportance. But that was not his work for for the ad, and he had to keep looking. And f noise, he thought. He was not going to find a Nick just said goodbye to his friend and cont
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ventually went to Konigsplein. He tried n’t inspire him. His aim was, however, a and playing with fire for a low generous minutes. The street juggler approached to me. The photos he wanted were on the aid less than one euro, that he left in the and a five euro bill. The artist spoke to him culty. He liked the scenes of unimportance, he things, those little details that should But he hated to give explanations to his eation, but rather of destruction of the nius. The damn and repeated scenes of r today. These photos were still not useful for that, he had to move away from the among the people what he was looking for. tinued to Spui.
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It was Friday and the old books market was installed under the huge and ancient trees in Spui. Nick always thought that the books kept the sadness of their old owners, and that market should hold the sadness of the whole world into their posts. He liked to capture the sadness, and persevered in his attempt to photograph a daily but hidden feeling. The rain was giving a respite and some clients were looking at old books full of sadness. He took some photos and felt that he would spend hours and hours searching the ins and outs of human complexity. Nick didn’t know when he lost more time, if taking photos or
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contemplating them after. Because most of the tim If they were useful for the ad, it wouldn’t be a futi clearly knew. He would sleep with the pictures on human complexity in those scenes of unimportan
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me it was a complete waste of time. Or not. ility. But Nick knew it was a stupid thing, he n the table, and the next day he would seek the nce, but full of reality.
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He continued wandering, cha repeatedly, feeling like at the grief, sadness and not physica Near the Dam he stood at a w large cat slept between the gia cat opened his eyes and looke photos and the cat closed his 42
anging direction again and beginning of the day: with al tiredness, but mental. window of cheese shop. A ant wheels of Gouda. The ed at Nick. He did a couple of eyes again. 43
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Sometimes he thoug useless to take pictu his time trying to ca essence that, in rea his fingers like wate unbearable way to b was meaningless. A a deep depression th as he found a good p picture.
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ght that it was ures, and spend apture a vital ality, slipped from er, was the most be aware that life And then he fell into hat lasted as long picture. A real good
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That picture what allowed him to get into somebody or something, much more than he could ever do with his body or his mind. That was what the camera could get: own a part of the world without having to go near it, but from afar. Possess a kind of being, a way of thinking of some people who were so far from him as his own soul. People who, however, became so close, so accessible only by being photographed and, above all, being observed in the solitude of his darkroom, the room in which his films and emotions were developed.
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He th leave pictu to rai decid the gr to sw
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hought finally that it was a good idea to e the pictures for another day. He had some ures, but he would not sell them. It started in again while he walked by Runstraat. He ded to go home. In the distance, a boat sailed reen waters of the canal and ducks began wim after it, perhaps looking for some food.
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