She was by the window. He was by the door.
I am intrigued by people in frames.
In each frame there is a story, waiting to be told.
These are their stories, told through different frames, in different cities.
I am intrigued by people in frames.
In each frame there is a story, waiting to be told.
These are their stories, told through different frames, in different cities.
She was fixated on the road, perhaps waiting for something.
in the old Mouraria neighbourhood, a place where people of all nations had mingled together for centuries, she held her baby, and I thought of who the baby will be in 20 years from now. what if he sees this photo one day?
"can I take your photo?"
"yes. very much."
A true tough mama. tattoos, loud rock music busting, she ruled the block from her window.
She waved and smiled at me from the window of a slum house made of tin, under a bridge. She caught me deep in thought, nonsensical negative thoughts about my own lack of money, actually.
She was shy and beautiful.
Up in the foggy mountains, I saw her slowly lean and peek out to watch us: the strange visitors to her village!
Serving her customers from a hole in the wall, she kept the kitchen behind her running full force, full of fire.
She was a monk meditating at one of the hundred stone temples of Angkor. There was silence, and then her, at peace.
1:00 am, tired, end of a busy day. She sat at the foot of her store, watching the last of people going home.
Mutual curiosity (nosyness) pulled us both to a crack in a door.
Sitting in Traffic with her friends, smoking a cigarette.
Tired and hot from the indoor heat. she shouted and shooed me away.
One of those moments when you feel more at home in a strange town than you would at home; when someone bids you farewell warmly when you are leaving. Thus was our local tailor.
"come back in...don't show up with that messy hair"...his mom pulled him in, brushed his hair and washed his face and then sent him back out so that "uncle would then snap a few photos"
Hanging in the cool shade, the two older brothers sang songs to the little sister and kissed her on the head.
He had his own flock of pigeons.
He asked me if I was from BBC.
Waiting eagerly for the car to be fixed so that the holiday trip could contiue to the Caspian Sea.
Keeping the office running on a lazy summer afternoon.
Quietly poking his head out to check out the outsiders visiting the village.
They say curiosity killed the cat. I'll say, it also provided me with a lot of good shots!
What a show. Honking his horns, singing, and waving at people on the street.
talking business over tea, on a hot summer noon in the Rug Sellers quarter.
Happily walking through the old mansion.
And the writing on the wall said "Forgive to be Forgiven.