FOCAL
LENGTH
Only after the plane had left the airport at Tel Aviv did Antonio DeSoto choose to look at his photographs. He stood up, and climbed over the empty seat to get to his camera bag out of the overhead. The stewardess had to squeeze by his husky frame as she walked down the narrow aisle. He towered over her as she passed by him, and the smell of two day old sweat pouring out of his underarms made him too close for her comfort. As he reached for the bag, she could see the deep, dark stains on the underarms of his olive drab T-shirt. She quickly went by him and towards the back sections of the plane.
DeSoto collapsed back into his
window seat in exhaustion. His head rested against his thick, frazzled black
hair tied with a pony tail. The setting sun entering through the window,
brought out the red in his tanned skin and the ochre in his brown eyes. He
opened his worn out canvass camera bag to find the photos. He removed a manila
envelope, opened it and took out the six photos, of the seventy-two he had
taken, that he felt were good enough to sell.
He carefully inspected each one: a
terrified, middle aged Palestinian woman picks up her three-year-old boy, who
is oblivious to his surroundings, as Israeli soldiers disembark from a troop
transport. A bottle shatters against an Israeli soldier's head as his partner
turns in the direction of the bottle, bringing his gun to bear. A group of
young Palestinian boys run away from a squad of
Israeli soldiers as one of them fires his rifle into the air. An elderly
Palestinian woman and her adolescent son duck behind a car as another car blows
up nearby. Four Israeli soldiers carry a middle aged Palestinian man spread
eagle towards a large truck, as a fifth soldier prods him with the butt of his
rifle. A twenty-five year old Israeli soldier grimaces as a medic places a
pressure bandage on his wounded leg.
DeSoto quietly approved his work. By
now he was 2,500 miles away from the Gaza Strip. Distance always allowed him to
be objective. In a business where connection with the subject matter garnered
better results, he made a living from detachment. He favored a 150-200mm zoom
lens; he need never be close physically to be close emotionally. Most times he
was neither, but the material still found its way to the readers' heart. He put
the pictures away and looked up the aisle to find the stewardess.
He picked up a copy of Newsweek,
flipped through the pages and stopped on an article about homeless AIDS
patients. The article sounded interesting but it was the photograph the
interested him even more:
A middle aged black man kissed his
three-year-old daughter as he held her. The diseases took its toll on the man
as it sculpted his cheeks with a thin layer of skin on his face, and as he
kissed his child they hollowed even more.
The deep mahogany color began to leave his face, replacing it with a
dull, grayish tinge. He wore an army cap stained around his brim, and a faded
green army jacket three sizes too big for the man. His long, frail, gaunt hand
emerged from the jacket in order to grasp his child. His eyes closed as he
kissed her. His daughter looked directly into the lens of the camera with
walnut shaped black eyes. She pushed the top of a crucifix against the inner
part of her right cheek, and it made her look like a hamster gathering food.
Her tiny hand didn't entirely hide the base of the four inch gold plated
crucifix. Her hair braided in two pony tails and held tight with a pair of
beaded elastic. The dim, pink winter jacket she wore puffed out between her
father's fingers, and one could see a large purple scar on the back of his left
hand.
It caught DeSoto's eye immediately.
He scanned the page to find the name of the photographer only to confirm his
suspicions. On the bottom left corner of the photo, the caption read "Greg
Avarro". He smiled as he read the name and muttered "that
sonuvabitch" under his breath.
As he turned back to read the
photograph's accompanying article, he kept picturing Avarro's face. They saw
each other last year after the student riots in
DeSoto glanced back at the picture
again. He loved Avarro's use of the wide angle lens. Great for wide open
spaced, but it can capture the most beautiful details if used close up. Avarro
felt the best pictures are taken from ten feet away. The photo was his example
of the results garnered by close proximity.
He returned to the article
remembering his friend. They occasionally met while on assignments and got
together for drinks. He was no longer on assignment and had no way of knowing
if Avarro was. Avarro lived in
*
* * * *
DeSoto was always glad to come back
to his one bedroom loft after any long stretches out of the country. It wasn't
much. A small, barren space made livable by the presence of furniture. The
bedroom attached to the living room by a door, and the bed hardly slept in even
when he was there. He'd work all night
and fall asleep on the couch, worn from age and misuse. Most of his time was
spent in a makeshift darkroom. Four large, gray wooden flats blocked off a
section of the room next to a window blackened with paint. An air conditioner
provided ventilation as well as cool air to break the summer sweat. Water was
provided to the darkroom by a garden hose fastened to the kitchen sink, and
acted as a reminder that there was another room outside.
The dark colored walls on the rest
of the house were beginning to peel off and small patches of white would peer
out from behind them. The larger patches were hidden by framed photos. He had
some of his photos there, but mostly that of other artists hung on the walls.
Robert Capa's "Moment of Death." The Tienaman Square video
still. The summary execution of a Viet
Cong at the Tet Offensive by Eddie Adams. The "Tet" photo was his
favorite.
He knew the photo by heart. The out
of focus background reminded him of the prevalent haze that got in your eyes
and blurred all perceptions. It was a devastating humidity that weighed upon
you and gave the allusion of dreamstate. You were already tired from humping
over hills and valleys, and through dense foliage day in and day out. When you
were hit by the torrid weather and you would look around you, and see thin,
distinct rays of orange light trying to peer through the deep green leaves of
the trees, and the trees would blend into the short grass colored drab
yellowish-brown from the constant abuse of soldier feet, and the grass became
dense bushes that hid the camouflaged soldiers so you couldn't tell anything
apart from each other, it all had the look of unreality. And all of it exposed
to the world with one picture.
DeSoto turned on his answering
machine and walked towards the refrigerator next to an oven in his kitchen. He
grabbed a beer, sat down at a small table next to it and started to sift
through the large pile of mail that had accumulated over his three week stay in
Israel. He occasionally listened as the machine ran off the messages.
"...DeSoto, this is Norman from
the Times...". DeSoto sorted out the bills from the pile.
"...I hate machines. It's
Linda...". He placed the latest issue of LIFE magazine on the table.
“...Tony? Hank. I need to reschedule
out meeting with...”. He threw a chance to receive $10,000,000 from Ed McMahon
in the garbage.
“...Guess who Tony.” DeSoto froze for
a moment. “Greg here. Sorry I didn’t catch you. Where are you this time? I’ll
find out in some magazine soon enough. Two things. One, check out a photo I did
in Newsweek next week. I think you’ll like it.” He smiled as the tape went on.
“Also, I’ll be in town on the 24th of Februrary, and I’d like to get together
for drinks. As if we get together for anything else. There’s a job I’d like to
talk to you about. You’re gonna like it. Call me soon.”
When he heartf the word job, his
eyes grew wider. But he had to laugh when Avarro mentioned “getting together
for drinks.” Greg was right, they only ever saw each other in bars, ever since
their days in war.
But now it was the joib that
interested DeSoto. He wondered what Avarro might have in store. Knowing Avarro
it had to be good. He knew Avarro had a great intuitive snese, and since it
once saved his life, DeSoto learned to trust it well. They both met on a raid
on a small hamlet. Watching him through his rifle sights 50 yards out, Avarro
was the only one who saw the ground DeSoto walk past move slightly. All DeSoto
heard was the thud of the dead VC soldier from behind him. Since then, DeSoto
never doubted Avarro’s intuition.
It was this intuition that led
DeSoto into photography. DeSoto’s days back from Nam consisted of long walks
through the city from his mother’s house in Harlem, trying to readjust to life
in the World. The rough Novemeber winds would rip down the slopes of Broadway
under the el trains, and blow the garbage in the streets. He could see the
antil-war flyers and peace symbols plastered on all the telephone poles, and
saw the resentment in the eyes of the students he passed. As he would walk by
Columbia, the wind would grow stronger and gust around the corner of 116th
street up from the Hudson and numb his face and blow more dirt in his eyes. The
world had changed for him and it was a relief when Avarro wrote to him. Avarro
had gotten a job as a darkroom assistant to a photo lab on the Lower East Side,
but he was leaving to pursue a photo career on his own and wanted to offer the
job to him. DeSoto was out of work at the time, he liked photography., and
trusted Avarro’s intuition. So he said yes. After some time, DeSoto found that
he had some promise and decided to follow Avarro’s example and struck out on
his own.
Now he had the chance to work with
Avarro. Now they were going to work together. The only time they really did
that was back on that hamlet in Nam. DeSoto looked back at the photo of “Tet”
and thought.
February 24 was only two days away.
He would have to wait a little while longer.
*
* * * *
You could hear the battle cry
thunder across the dimly lit bar:
“Get over here you sonuvabitch!”
Avarro stormed in and flew towards DeSoto, arms outstretched and smiling from
ear to ear. They colided with a soudn of hands slapping marine canvass. They
both wore their olive drabs vests for the occasion. DeSoto chose a table in the
back away from the crowd amassed in the middle of the bar and ordered drinks.
“So what’s up with you?” Avarro asked
as he drank his beer.
DeSoto spoke quickly. “I’m fine.
Sold a few pictures of the Gaza Strip the other day. I loved that shot in Newsweek. It’s great. So what job do you
have in mind?”
Avarro looked over his beer at his
friend and laughed. He kept the smiel on as he spoke. “You really are in a
rush.”
“No, but amazingly curious.” DeSoto
smiled in anticipation. “What is it?”
“Man, you’rejust like a kid at
Christmans. You really want to know. Here it is: El Salvador.”
DeSoto’s teeth remained fixed in a
smile but the corners of his mouth turned down suddenly as he heard the words
leave Avarro’s lips. Avarro’s smile simply widened.
“Salvador?” DeSoto asked. “That’s
the job?”
“Yeah. Don’t you love it?”
“I don’t know.” DeSoto’s smile was
gone by now. He turned his eyes away from Avarro’s.
“What?” The smile left Avarro’s face
as well. “I thought you loved the action.”
“I do. I just don’t like risking my
life for it.”
“Oh, so naturally you go to the Gaza
Strip.” Avarro shot back.
“Come on.” DeSoto fixed his gaze
back at Avarro. ‘You know that’s a different situation.”
Avarro was stunned by his friend’s
response. “How do you see that?”
“They don’t shoot journalists in
Israel. Just make sure that you don’t get in their way and you’re okay ninety
percent of the time.”
“Exactly,” Avarro jumped in. “You
have to avoid trouble when you can no matter where you are.”
“At least I know what to avoid.”
DeSoto’s voice was much softer now. “In El Salvador you have to watch out for
everything. You don’t know who’ll kill you. If the leftist rebels don’t trust
you, you’re history. If the government agents think that something’s up, you’re
in trouble, unless the embassy clears you and then you might be out tof the
country.If not you could be kiled as rebels.”
“Hey, right wing governments backed
by the U.S. never kill. They have leftist rebels summarily executed.” Avarro
said being only slightly tongue in cheek about it.
“That’s what I mean.” DeSoto’s voice
raised a little. “You know the deal when you see an overview, but when you’re
in the thick of it, things get blurry. It’s too ambiguous.”
“Wars aren’t ambiguous.” Avarro
looked down into his beer and took a gulp.
“Excuse me?” DeSoto directed
Avarro’s gaze back to him. “You were in country for two tours. You can sit there
and tell me that wars aren’t ambiguous?”
“It’s only ambiguous because we got
involved. That’s exactly why we should be in Salvvador. Because we’re there
again.”
“I don’t want to go because I’ve
already been there.” DeSoto’s voice raised again.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to
enlist. We’re going to take pictures.” Avarro explained. “I thought this is why
you liked photography?”
“It is.” DeSoto’s voice lowered, but
the tone was just as bold. “That anger I have for war, I put on film. Get’s it
out of my system so I don’t have to deal with it. That’s how I deal with it.
But El Salvador hits a little too close to home for me.”
“Another reason for you to go.”
Avarro’s tone matched DeSoto’s. “You’ve been detatching yourself for too long.”
“Only because I’ve been too close
before.” DeSoto’s teetch clenched tight as he started to talk. “I was a grunt.
My buddies dies, women, children, and they weren’t more than a few feet ahead
of me. I think that’s a bit too close for my comfort! And look who’s telling me
about close. You were a lurp and a sniper, no less!”
“But I was still closer than you.”
Avarro’s voice began to crack and flare. His anger couldn’t be hidden or held
back. “You may have been a few feet away from any VC, but with a rifle sight I
was always in their face. I knew what their faces looked like before they were
dead and after. I saw their face right up close before I shot them. I saw the
cause of death. I was it! You saw the aftermath.”
“Don’t tell me what I saw!” DeSoto’s
voice grew coarser with each exchange. “I have 24 confirmed kills. Nothing to
be proud of but it means something. I was there. You might have been trying to
get closer to the action, but I was in the thick of it, and I want no part of
it.”
“Like I said before, so you go to the
Gaza Strip?”
“I do it for my own reasons.” DeSoto
calmed down a bit. “And I do it from a distance. You’re the one taking
portraits.”
“That comes from working with rifle
sights.” Avarro’s hands formed around and imaginary rifle. “You always focus on
the eyes. I guess I’ve always been good at head shots.” He swtiched his hands
to hold an imaginary camera. He pushed the shutter and muttered “Bang.”
They both stared at each other for a
few seconds, each trying not to be the first one to laugh. They broke the
silence with a thunderous laugh and stayed laughing for five long minutes. They
settled down and wiped away the tears of laughter poouring down their cheeks.
“Why El Salvador?” DeSoto finally
asked.
“I don’t know. Seemed logical to
me.” They grew silent again. DeSoto stared at his drink again. Avarro
continued. “There’s this little village a few miles out of San Miguel. You have
to see this village.”
“Have I seen this village before?”
DeSoto’s asked. He never looked up from his glass.
“Probably. Yes. But it’ll do you a
world of good to see it now.” They were both silent again. “You said that you
deal with your hatred on film. So do I. I’ve no argument with that. But dealing
with this hate in this manner, you also have to deal with the truth. As a photojournalist,
you need to find the truth behind the hate and deal with that aspect as well.
That’s how you can make a living from your hate. But the first job of a
photojournalist is to seek out the truth and expose it to the public. That’s
how you solve the ambiguity. And that’s what we’ll be doing in El Salvador.
What d’you say?”
DeSoto looked up and they both
stared at each other. Their last real discussion like this was in a long night
of drinking at the “O” club. They talked about their hatred of being where they
were, their longing to make it one more day, and their hopes that they won’t
lose anymore buddies the next day. The other get togethers were to remember
their friendship, and forget what made them friends. They relished in their
company in other countries that were in disarray. Today they were dealing with
their past. they both smiled.
“This is not the kind of job I was
hoping for. Okay. I’m in.”
Avarro’s smile grew larger, but he
was tired. He was sweating at the brow and was short of breath, but he was
content. He finished his beer quickly and gasped fgor air as he placed the
glass on the table. DeSoto looked frazzled as well. He wasn’t sweating at all,
but his hair was now getting in his eyes and his hands trembles a bit.
They got up together and paid the
checks without a sound. A gentle breeze blew through the room as people
enteredand exited the bar. The air was warm inside, but the February wind
brought a chill that circulated and reminded people of the world outside.
Avarro made a path through a crowd of people and DeSoto followed. They made
their way to the exit. Finally Avarro turned to speak to DeSoto.
“We’ll cover the truth from both
angles. Action and reaction.” Avarro spoke gently and soothing voice.
“I still feel that I’ll regret
this.” DeSoto said.
“Who knows. You probably will.”
They said their good byes as the
February New York winds blew down upon them. They went their separate ways at
the corner, and departed to the warmth of their own apartments to prepare for
the journey to the ropical jungles of El Salvador.