war photographer – half-girl, half-robot

herdivineshadow: ‘War PhotographerIn his darkroom he is finally alonewith spools of…

herdivineshadow:

‘War Photographer

In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do….

Just saw Chimerica at the Harold Pinter theatre. I left hating the photographer written by Lucy Kirkwood, but I never thought of the struggle.

It was pretty much studying this poem during my GCSEs and being introduced to Kevin Carter via the Manics song that got me interested in thinking about what war photographers do and the “do I take the photo or do I go and help the starving child etc?” question. What’s more important – showing the world what’s going on and the potential consequences of that or actually doing something to help the one person in front of you? Does the former do more good for the many while potentially sacrificing the one?

Mostly I got thinking about all this again as I’ve been listening to BBC Radio 3’s The Essay programme which has had the theme of Portaits of Capa all this week. Tom Hiddleston & Hayley Atwell are due to star in a film about Robert Capa and Gerda Taro which is why the programme caught my eye in the first place (I <3 Hayley Atwell).

‘War Photographer

In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.

Something is happening. A stranger’s features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man’s wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.

A hundred agonies in black-and-white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between bath and pre-lunch beers.
From aeroplane he stares impassively at where
he earns a living and they do not care.

Carol Ann Duffy