The Photograph

They originated from India, the lowest caste, the untouchables even there when they left a thousand years ago to begin their search for a better world, a world of acceptance and integration. Though nothing for them has changed, not even here in France where the motto ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity’ supposedly exists. Not a single one of those numerous countries they travelled through on their way ever learnt who they were or who they could be. And I wonder how many people have really tried to understand their ways, to see them as beautiful people and get close enough to them to change their scowls into smiles and their distrust into love.

I did.

Though not at first. At the beginning they terrified me! The mouse inside me was too timid, constantly fighting with the artist who so desperately wanted to capture those ancient faces, etched and weather-worn by years of outside existence. The beauty of deep wrinkles mapping their scowling faces would work so well in the black and white photographs I often envisaged.

If only I could find a way in.

I took a few bags of clothes for the children and as the hoards encircled my car the belief, that my gift might open a door into their lives, grew. But once I’d handed out my offerings they dispersed, disappeared like ghosts into their daily lives, while I was left with my hopes as empty as my hands.

But I wouldn’t give up.

They were a motley crew in hand-me-down clothes and muddied shoes, their black hair unkempt and their dark skins a beacon to disdain and contempt - and of course to the police. They belonged to a race the whole world loves to hate, always judged guilty of any minor thefts or infractions nearby and the catalyst for never-ending petitions requesting their removal. In this world of high tech their race was an anachronism, their lifestyle better suited to more ancient times.

Their camp, although picturesque with brightly painted caravans and the odd pinto horse grazing the perimeter, was always muddy even on the hottest summer day, its beauty marred by the scattered litter trodden into compacted soil or floating like grubby birds on the breeze. I passed it most days driving my son to and from school and whenever my frustration mounted, I would go through his clothes again, searching for items he’d grown out of, or never worn, just to give me another opportunity to stop and try again, but it was always the same. I began to wave each time I passed, at first receiving only cold, harsh stares in response, until finally, one day, a child waved back.

Yes!

And gradually, very gradually, that one child became two and then three, until a band of them would wave back, laughing as they chased barefoot to outrun my car. And then one morning, on my return from school, the artist in me outranked the mouse. Sitting beside his caravan was a young man weaving a basket, the thin willow stems splaying like a float of dancers from his working hands. He wore a black leather jacket, jeans and the always present, muddy shoes – not an ideal specimen to my wrinkle obsessed ideal, but not a bad start.

I always carried my camera with me, so quickly pulled the car off the road and climbed out, rapidly draping the heavy camera-bag across my chest - protected against potential theft. I was conscious that my action of locking the doors could be viewed as distrust, but I was not willing to risk doing otherwise. While trying to suppress the butterflies attempting to take flight in my stomach I started across the muddy encampment. The children, my children, ran towards me in an excited exuberance of color and laughter, and as I opened my empty hands I watched a flicker of disappointment flash quickly across their faces before being replaced by the decision to greet me anyway. Somehow I felt safer in their company. After shaking each of their grubby hands, tousling the odd head and requesting a few names, I asked them if they thought the man with the leather jacket might be willing to allow me to photograph him. They said they didn’t know, that I’d have to ask him.   

So I did.

But very nervously. “Um - err - excuse me Monsieur, but would it be okay if I took your photo? You sitting there making that basket would make a wonderful shot!”

He smiled at me - He smiled at me! “Yes, of course, no problem.”

And with the children running in circles around me, touching my hair or my clothes each time I crouched for the perfect shot, here I was finally getting that proverbial foot in the door. Every now and again I raised my camera to capture a mischievous grin, a roar of laughter or a shy smile and reveled in the sunshine highlighting my subjects, giving a glow to their faces or a halo when they turned.

Suddenly an old woman lumbered down the steps of her ancient caravan. She was wearing a long flowery skirt and a loose black jacket, while bangles adorned her wrists and rings her fingers. Her face was everything I’d dreamed of with deep fissures reflecting the thousands of frowns and smiles she had bestowed over the years, each line ingrained with dirt and wood smoke. She carried a blue washing-up bowl, a selection of finished baskets and one still in the making; the former she carefully inverted before stiffly lowering herself to sit, draping her skirts around her feet, hiding the blue bowl. She placed the finished baskets in an array round her, rechecked her skirts and started work on the unfinished one.  

This is too good to be true!

I thanked the man for his permission, but addressed his leather jacket, still not brave enough to meet his eye and, as nonchalantly as I could, I sauntered over to the ancient crone on her upturned bowl, hoping I looked more confident than I felt.

“Bonjour Madame.” I began. “Would it be okay if I took your photo too?” I shot a look over my shoulder to indicate the man whose image I’d already claimed.

She shrugged her shoulders, nonchalant, disinterested, bored even. “If you want.” She didn’t smile.

Yes I do want!  I thought.

And I proceeded to take shots from every possible angle, the children less interesting now I had such a gnarled and ancient model to satisfy my wants. She didn’t speak to me further nor even acknowledge my presence, though surely it must have been irritating to have me flitting around her like an annoying fly whilst she worked. Once I’d covered each angle, each flutter of a change in expression, I began all over again, terrified of missing the shot. But finally even I had to admit that I had taken every photo possible and decided to call it a day. I thanked her profusely, though she didn’t reply, and turned my attention back to my allies, the children.

As I did, I saw her collect up her baskets, pick up her washing-up bowl and quietly disappear back inside her painted caravan. And I suddenly understood. Jubilance flowed through my veins as I savored the knowledge that she had emerged from her caravan for one reason only.

For me to take her photograph!

But that first timid step, that fear filled approach was rewarded by so much more than I could ever have appreciated or anticipated. With the matriarch’s acceptance I was suddenly able to visit when I pleased and gradually, very gradually, my fears evaporated and the adults accepted my presence and my intrusive camera. The hard stares turned to welcoming smiles, to cups of coffee and eventually the sharing of their meals – much to the children’s disbelief and fascination.

“Oh yes, a gadji* has to eat too!” I told them.

As weeks turned to months and then to years, these inaccessible outcasts became my closest friends as together we gradually discovered a reciprocal loyalty and a deep, enduring love. Their pride in my friendship, that shone like a beacon whenever extended family would visit, was truly endearing, but it was their kindness, abundant generosity and their support in times of need that was immeasurable and so unexpected, that every once in a while I’d look back and wonder in amazement at my original inherently deep-rooted but totally unfounded fears.  

Despite leaving France over twenty years ago they still remain in contact through their wonderful phonetically spelt messages telling me of births, deaths and marriages - and everything in-between. I visit them when I can and as I thank them for lifts from the airport, long journeys to see me, or their innumerable acts of kindness they first look bemused then merely shrug my thanks away and reply,

“But Charlotte, you are family!”

*Gadji is the Romany word for a female non-gypsy – Gadjo if male.