A Glimpse Through the Aperture

Arturo stepped out of the shop and into the Barcelona sunshine, holding the small yellow package tightly in one hand. A finger of sweat traced a line down his face. He couldn’t wait to see what treasures lay inside, like an archaeologist about to uncover the hidden relics of an untold story. This was finally the moment of truth. With one deep breath, he opened the flap, revealing the contents inside.

•••

He had awoken to yet another morning of oppressive July heat, the day it all started. The curtains were barely holding it all back as he lay in bed. He knew they would be warm to the touch when he finally opened them. Finally prepared to face the world.

Usually, he would’ve greeted a day like this with curiosity and excitement. But since he lost his job, it just seemed like all that summer sun would just reveal the harsh reality of his life, with its unforgiving glare, casting shadows that cut like shards of glass. He hadn’t really enjoyed his job anyway, but at least it somehow kept his life within a known structure. But now the scaffolding had fallen away, and every new day just stretched out ahead of him long and wide, his life as listless as a boat on an unstirring sea.

He knew he hadn’t been himself for months, and he could feel it slowly consuming him, like a dark cloak weighing him down to the ground. It was no surprise to him when Gonzalo had finally walked out. Another pillar of his life that had crumbled to dust. He didn’t blame him at all. The long nights discussing future dreams and plans were replaced by the heavy days of the present, and the past wasn’t strong enough to keep them afloat. He knew that the weight was too much for anyone to take, and soon enough, he knew that the man Gonzalo had fallen in love with was a mere shadow of his former self.

He finally got out of bed and opened the curtains. The light banished the gloom within. He stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, hoping to wash the film of sweat from his body that clung to him from the night before. The sun’s rays streamed across the framed photos on the wall that he had taken in what seemed like another lifetime now. The playful candy colours of the Ferris wheel on Tibidabo. A hopscotch board painted in a yellow as bright as daffodils against the sheen of the blackest of asphalt drenched in winter rain. A gaggle of grey, empty chairs waiting patiently in St Peter’s Square like a crowd of devout followers. A crane bathed in crimson in Bilbao’s shipyard, looming high above the film plane like some mythical metal beast forged from fire. But now, in the light that shone relentlessly, the colours were gradually fading to a hue of bruised purple. He imagined a time-lapse film of the sun — rising and falling, day in and day out over the months and seasons — slowly aging everything in its path. Now, the photos just seemed to be a testament to how much time had slipped by.

He stepped into the shower, and as the cool water cascaded down onto him, he grasped his hands together in front of his chin, almost as if in prayer.

“Please wash this all away,” he thought.

He dried off, walked back down the hallway to the bedroom, and opened the armoire. The shirts hung there glumly, staring back at him. He let out a quiet sigh through pursed lips and stared back. He rummaged through the hangers, looking for something to wear, but nothing seemed to speak to him that day. And that’s when he saw it. Nestled behind the clothes and old shoes lay a large black bag. He pulled it out and placed it on the bed. He slowly unzipped the top, and there, within the bright red interior, lay his old analogue camera. A hint of a smile — perhaps twinged with a bit of sadness — came across his face.

“Hello, old friend. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He picked it up. The weight of it felt good in his hands. He slung the thick black strap over his neck and looked down at it. When was the last time that he had put the camera to his eye? All of the wonderful things that he had previously seen, passing through the light in the viewfinder, like characters on a stage. He almost didn’t want to look, thinking that somehow the camera would know that his eyes had changed, and it would wonder why the stage had been so empty for so long.

His days in film school back in the ’90s came rushing back to him when he would roam the streets of Toronto, letting the world reveal itself one photo at a time. Hearing that momentary click of the opening aperture, letting in the light for a brief moment. Remembering how he could almost feel the image blooming on the negative deep inside the camera’s body, like watercolours on a thirsty canvas. And the delicious, mechanical sound of the film advance lever that pulled the next unexposed frame of film out of the light-tight roll, eager to tell the next story.

He recalled the excitement of sending in the film reel to be developed, hoping the exposure and focus had been correct. His glowing anticipation when he opened the package of photo paper in the darkroom — with its strong chemical smell — hungry for the world to appear on its surface. He remembered standing in front of the film enlarger, like some secret shrine that only he was privy to, and placing the film in the negative carrier with the paper firmly in place below. And then, in a flash, turning on the light and watching the magic unfold before his eyes.

But somehow, through the years, the fascination had dimmed, much like the photos on his walls, and his photographer’s dream faded away, too. He moved on to more practical things for work. Something that didn’t really speak to his soul but would at least pay the bills. And so, the camera came out less and less until it was finally exiled into permanent darkness.

He finally placed his eye against the viewfinder — this little window on the world — and then he remembered that the true magic happens somewhere between the camera’s eye and his own. It wasn’t just a mere capturing of what was there in front of him — not just the objects contained in the frame — but the story that they whispered to him. The interplay of shapes and patterns that anthropomorphized and took on a life of their own. That hidden world just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.

He took the camera away from his eye and cradled it in his hands for a few moments. Then he rummaged through the camera bag and felt a small, cylindrical metal object inside. A roll of film still waiting to be used. He opened the camera door and then, with hands as gentle as a surgeon’s, gently placed the roll of film inside. With a snap, he closed it tight and pulled the advance lever. As he did, the film count indicator slid from zero to one. He quickly dressed, slung the camera around his arm, grabbed his keys and walked out the front door, slamming it shut behind him. The faded photos on the walls rattled in their frames as he headed out into the world.

He passed through the long serpentine streets of El Raval and into the Gothic Quarter. He walked by the tourists standing in front of the church of Santa María del Mar, taking their relentless selfies, obsessed with capturing every second before they moved on to the next picture-postcard moment. Just capturing the digital catalogue of one’s life but not really seeing anything at all. He wandered through the gates of Ciutadella Park and past the couples and families huddling in the shade. On and on, he went through this city brimming with life and possibility. 

And as the day went by, the memory of why he loved taking pictures once again came into focus. It forces you to be intensely in the moment. The worries of the past gradually fade away, and the future simply becomes something that develops in its own time. 

All you’re left with is the fleeting, ever-unfolding present. 

The light would never be quite like it was. Every moment through the lens, like the creatures and faces captured in clouds, would never pass this way again. And with that, life always holds the promise of renewal, of a new way of looking at things. And if you’re willing to be still enough, it has wonderful secrets to show you. And he — only him and his eyes — was a witness to these moments. In the end, his photos spoke the language of his soul, and he found solace in that.

With each click of the camera, he again envisioned the negative deep within the camera’s heart, taking on the light as the aperture opened momentarily, the light bleeding onto the surface. And then he remembered one other thing — that the things that are the darkest on the negative’s surface are, in fact, the brightest. 

Light becomes dark, and once developed onto paper, dark becomes light once again. Without darkness, there is no contrast; without contrast, the image is just a white, empty void.

With one picture left, Artur sat on the edge of the Espigó del Gas, jutting far out to sea, watching the sun slowly glide down to the horizon. And he realized at that moment that this day, too, was merely a long, slow exposure — with its aperture slowly closing — of that mystical thing we call life. 

And for the first time, he realized that he wasn’t just a witness to this moment on the other side of the viewfinder. He was a part of the picture. Yes, he had a story to tell, but he was also a part of the story, too.

•••

Arturo pulled the 24 photos out of the yellow package, brimming with bright, vivid colour, and slowly sifted through them. The order of the images mapping out his journey on that day, like visual breadcrumbs, breathing it all back to life once again. The flickering colours of drying laundry hanging above the streets on Carrer de la Riereta, chattering to one another in the breeze. The dark poles along the sidewalk, standing like silent guards, that cast long shadows, slowly marking the sun passing overhead like perfectly synchronized sundials. The fallen blossoms, in their vivid purple, chasing one another along Avenida de les Drassanes like giddy schoolchildren. The boats in the harbour along the Moll de Fusta, with their reflections moving like a living oil painting in the water below. The man on the Passeig de Joan Borbó conjuring massive undulating bubbles out of his soapy red bucket, shimmering in the sunlight, daring the passersby to catch them. Down to the shore of the indigo sea, with a rainbow armada of boats along the horizon, their sails as sharp as pencil tips carving their path along the blue sky. 

One final photo lay behind the stack. He remembered that — after a little bit of hesitation — he had taken a selfie, too. That, at least on this day, he wanted to be the witness to himself. He looked down at the lines and contours on his face, much like a negative of himself. A testament to the life he had lived so far, exposed, raw and real. The eyes looking back at him in the frame looked different somehow. They gleamed in the fading orange light of that summer sunset, glowing with a new sense of wonder and hope.

Finally, he could feel the heavy fog lifting from his life. And slowly, gradually, he could see once again.

He smiled as he tucked the photos back into the yellow package and walked down Carrer de Pelai towards home. And in that moment, a gentle summer breeze rustled the flyer stuck to the camera store’s window, now with one phone number tear-off strip missing. 

The flyer read in big, bold letters: SE NECESITA FOTÓGRAFO AUTÓNOMO (Freelance photographer needed).