Photogenic is a Useless Adjective

I love photographing people who are not considered photogenic. When I meet them, they often warn me about how bad they will look in their pictures, and seem somehow ashamed of not being able to portray some set of coveted characteristics. In front of the lens, they look away, repeatedly clear their throats, they chuckle while looking down...a burst of colors going to their face.

Interested in portraying his joie de vivre and effusive personality, I asked Daniel, a friend visiting from Barcelona, if I could take his picture. He was nervous, brought two different set of glasses, and told me no one had ever taken a good picture of him. Some sushi and three Sapporos later he was ready for his shot.

In moments like this, when I see people unaware of their charm, of their uniqueness, or their ugly-sexiness, I often remember this saying I used to hear back in Dominican Republic: "Cada quien tiene lo suyo"... such accurate popular wisdom. We as human beings are not and cannot be repeated; this is not possible and quite frankly also undesirable. Maybe Daniel couldn't mirror the latest fashion ad from Diesel, but his delicate awkward pose, interwoven fingers (to hold down the nerves), the unintended sincere laugh that came out of his discomfort, and the lovely red of his hair(sprinkled with silver)are not replicable, and that alone is very special.

I stayed quiet while photographing him, sans directing of any kind(none of that "beautiful", "hold it" or "that's hot!" crap). I purposely do this every time I take someone's photograph because I don't want to scare their essence away, I don't want their spirit to go back in its shell, and I also want to send the message that what they got to offer is more than good enough, that their way is special and desirable, and that no one else is capable of replicating it.

Staying Alive

My uncle Cesar gave me specific instructions before allowing me to take his portrait. "I won't take off my sunglasses", he said. But tio, your eyes are what I am most interested in, I said. He told me he didn't want to be photographed because his eyelids are too saggy, because he looks a lot older than he really is, and because once again his jeans are falling off his body. He doesn't like to portray an image of weakness.

When I found out my tio had cancer, my heart skipped a bit and a rush of cold went through my body; I was so afraid. I didn't want him to suffer and I didn't want to lose my favorite uncle. I was afraid he would be in pain and lose his sense of humor. I was afraid he would become bitter and not shower us girls with kisses on our foreheads. I was afraid my memories of him would evaporate (my childhood memories of him picking me up in the middle of a school day to take me to the beach in Dominican Republic; I remember storming out of that classroom, with a huge smile on my face and already savoring the boruga he has going to buy me on the way there). I was afraid no one would be able to sing old boleros in the guitar with me like he did, with that classic charm. I was afraid to lose the most free spirited person in my family whom I identify with on many levels. But after two surgeries and several rounds of chemotherapy, my tio is still alive.

Tio's skin got saggier and spotted, his teeth discolored, and his few hairs turned cotton white. He is skinnier now and rests more than he used to. However, my tio is more alive than many perfectly healthy, young people that I know. Despite his pain, he is still a pleasure to be around, and still sings, his voice now tinged with fragility. He smiles, and compliments the beautiful things about people. His sense of humor is still intact, which became apparent when he mischievously told us his nurse stormed out of the hospital room when he reprimanded her for farting around him while taking his blood pressure. He still drinks his morning coffee, tar black, and reads Garfield every day in the Newsday paper. He is still living.

I am not afraid anymore. I have realized throughout tio's sickness that his love of life is stronger than any constellation of damaged cells inside of him. His smile is more outstanding than the yellow color of his damaged teeth. His heart is still open to those he loves, which he demonstrated when he took off his baseball cap and showed me he had no hair left, allowing me to see him vulnerable.

In my eyes, my tio represents what it means to be alive. I am not afraid anymore because tio's spirit is still intact and will keep inspiring me to love life long after he is gone.That is something no one can ever take away from us two, not even death.